The Naga's Bride
by the aspiring cynic
Summary: It is said that a child born under the influence of a love potion will never know love. The gods, in a single act of mercy, bestow upon this child a gift. / Tom Riddle is convinced that this summer would be just as dreadful as the rest until he finds a witch in his bed, bleeding and speaking Parseltongue. / Soul bonds. Time travel. Prophecies. AU.
1. Unspeakable Patil

Seven years had passed since the Wizarding World had witnessed the fall of the darkest wizard known to history—Lord Voldemort. Within these seven years, a flurry of marriages and baby carriages frequently went hand-in-hand. Padma Patil herself had been invited to Luna Lovegood's— _soon-to-be Luna Scamander_ , she mentally corrected herself—wedding, probably due to the fact that she hadn't bullied Luna like the rest of their Ravenclaw alumni. But then again, there was a possibility that she invited most of the 'Claws anyway; Luna always had been a kind-hearted girl despite her rather _absurd_ beliefs.

Seven years had passed, and Padma Patil was still as single as ever. While this fact would have daunted other witches, Padma fervently believed that there were better things to do in the post-war vacuum that had resulted from the almost mass chaos that were the first two years after His death. Celebrations had been evident in every street—regardless of Muggle presence. The Ministry had to work overtime simply to make sure that the International Statute of Secrecy was still intact. It was a happy time, Padma would readily admit, but it was also a time marked by grief and slight wariness. They had spent so much of their lives in fear that they were still unsure of their next move. The victory had been rather double-edged; _He_ had been defeated, yes, but the Ministry's corruption was ripped from the veil of deception and apparent for all to see. There was a rush for new blood—people were sacked and hired on the spot. There was an outcry for change throughout the magical community—tolerance was at an all-time high. After all, what better time to give and receive respect than during a war? Blood purists were pushed back to the edges of society with shame as their only companion. Most of the prominent families (read: _pure-blood_ ) had been disgraced, only a few such as the Longbottoms and the Potters still retained their full status. Most had been stripped down to the same status they bestowed upon Muggleborns or blood traitors for centuries. They were now social pariahs—a phenomenon they had never experienced in all their centuries of magic and blood and tradition.

Many of Padma's yearmates were given invitations for positions within the Ministry, though many did return to school—if only to complete their N.E.W.T.s like Hermione Granger. Some, however, went straight to work. Padma had gone to the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages to further her studies in Ancient Runes and obscure magical languages. She always had a bit of flair when it came to Runes and Charms. Parvati, her enthusiastic and cheerful twin, had grown quieter mostly due to the death of her best friend Lavender Brown. She was still the brightly-colored fashionista Padma remembered from childhood, but there was now an air of maturity that surrounded her younger twin. Parvati was slightly more subdued now but she still always indulged her twin with gossip.

Her twin was currently dating Seamus Finnigan much to the chagrin of their parents who wanted the both of them to settle down and _marry already_. But they seemed pacified by the continued promise of settling down into their careers before establishing a household. Parvati, to nearly no one's surprise, went straight into fashion and began designing clothing especially dress robes; she even did a bit of an apprenticeship with Madam Malkin before selling her creations by herself. Padma often felt nostalgic whenever she wandered into her sister's flat, snorting at the wizard's dress robes because of the memory of their ill-fated dates to the Yule Ball. She and her sister usually still had a good laugh at the horrendous reminder of a certain Weasley's _vintage_ dress robes.

"Padma!" Despite the call of her name, Padma didn't move an inch from her desk. Her bewitched spectacles showed the intricate curves of the Runes on the page, making them appear as though they were floating before her eyes. Her entire office was filled to the brim with various parchments flying about—sorting themselves into stacks, pinning themselves to walls, and a few in the process of being written on—and a large tome sat in front of her.

Gemma Jones was her colleague, though her specialty had been in Welsh and Romanic Runes rather than the eastern ones Padma preferred. They often had to work together in the Department of Mysteries, using their expertise to decipher even the most weathered and antediluvian of glyphs. Despite Gemma being five years her senior, Padma found her to be the most agreeable friend since she was knowledgeable, respectable, and amiable. The older witch had her hair tied back in a tangled, brown bun and her outfits were always completed with a pair of spectacles—bewitched both for her work and for her poor eyesight.

"Did you get the memo? They've moved the meeting to this afternoon," Gemma asked as she adjusted her glasses, carefully avoiding the numerous papers fluttering around her generous frame. Padma stilled, looking up from her work and glancing around her office—looking for a bright blue color, the department head's stationery. It was difficult to find the note among the numerous fluttering parchments that were flying around her office. Padma bit her lip and the sound of rustling paper became quite clamorous until she finally spied the document between the stacks on her bookshelf.

The paper immediately flew to its mistress's hands, and Padma scanned the flowery script before looking up at her friend.

"It says we're meeting him this Thursday." Padma frowned, obviously confused.

Gemma shook her head. "The department head's been a bit . . . _addled_ because the budget's due in under a fortnight. He's decided that you're to be the one to meet the liaison from Gringotts to investigate the artifact. Apparently, they think it's more Asian in nature."

"Liaison?" Padma muttered as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Unlike her sister who had graduated from braids to a more mature updo, Padma still tightly wove her hair into the familiar design, claiming that it kept her hair out of her face just the way she liked it.

"You know," Gemma fidgeted as a slight pinkish hue appeared on the tips of her ears. "Bill Weasley."

"Gemma!" Padma nearly shouted, "He's happily married with kids!"

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Oh, _hush_. He's still quite fit for a married man."

Gemma may have been a rather respectable witch but she was prone to crushes; she often complained that her bitter Aunt Gilda had cursed the women in her family and _that_ was the reason why she had never had a steady boyfriend for more than a few months. It was the only thing about her coworker that drove Padma up the wall on occasion.

Padma scowled. "Looks like I'm leaving. And I had promised Parv that we'd go out to lunch too." She waved her wand wordlessly and streams of parchment and books began to flow into her blue leather satchel. She had personally charmed the satchel which had been given to her as a Christmas present from her sister. The leather had been dyed navy-blue - her sister had told her it was a rather popular choice of material for Muggles, though wizards tended to prefer dragonhide—adorned with bronze letters that spelled her name. The color scheme reminded her of more innocent times: her first year at Hogwarts and coincidentally, her first year away from her twin. It was the first time they had ever been apart for more than a few hours. Padma snatched up the cross-body bag before checking over her office, briefly considering whether she should bring another set of books—Runes were different depending on their geographic origin, knowing the original location of the artefact usually did wonders for its translation—and ultimately decided against it. She could always come back to her office, after all.

Using the Floo, Padma soon found herself in Diagon Alley before quickly scrawling out a memo on her ivory stationery. She watched the stationery airplane zoom towards Parvati's shop, informing her twin that she wouldn't be able to keep their lunch date. Padma walked briskly towards the white-columned building and through the bronze doors of Gringotts. After flashing her Ministry badge before slipping it back into a pocket within her robes, she was almost immediately taken to a goblin by the name of Fugnok.

"Greetings, Fugnok. All is well I presume?" Padma smiled after hearing his greeting, she rather liked the wizened old goblin since he reminded her of her grandfather back in India. Both had an old-world charm about them and a similar businesslike, no-nonsense attitude that she could appreciate. She suspected that the goblin liked her as well—not nearly as much as he did Curse-Breaker Bill Weasley—but her general knowledge of Gobbledegook usually made her the preferred Ministry contact even surpassing the buffoons they often sent from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

The goblin gestured her towards the cart. "The artefact in question was discovered early this morning; the Ministry has declared that it takes precedence." Her stomach did a few flips as the other goblin—Lomrig, she believed was his name—took them on a steep path in the rickety cart. The cart zoomed down kilometers and kilometers of passageways, taking them further and further underground. They arrived before the vault within fifteen minutes; it was quite possibly the longest ride she had ever experienced in Gringotts. Padma was pleased that it took even less time for her to get her bearings. Waiting before the entrance was a red-haired and heavily-scarred man who had a fang adorning one of his ears—the famous Bill Weasley.

"Padma it's good to see you. How are you?" He shook her hand while casting a wolfish smile. They had worked together before—few wizards or witches ever went far in the study of Ancient Runes—and her expertise in the Asiatic languages was almost unmatched. Bill's job involved breaking any curses that could still be lingering on an object, even after centuries of disuse. Reading the Runes on an artefact could often be the deciding factor in saving a Curse-Breaker's life as well as discovering its purpose.

"Busy as usual. How are Victoire and Fleur and Dominique?" She answered; Bill was quite the family man despite his adventurous occupation. She had listened to him gush about his daughters often enough to feel like she knew them personally.

"Oh, Fleur's pregnant—practically glowing. Victoire and Dominique are very excited about being older sisters. They're convinced that they'll find the baby being carried in by fairies in a few months." Padma smiled as she listened but it sent a small ache in her chest as she wondered whether she would ever be the one bragging about her own progeny in the future. Dismissing the snide thought, she focused her attention on Bill again.

"It was found in one of the older vaults, we suspect that it may have been built around the 1300s. It was supposedly brought in from India by some unknowing Muggles until the Ministry discovered and confiscated the item. They've sealed it up ever since." Padma nodded as she had her enchanted quill jot down some notes; the time period could be helpful.

"Do we have any further knowledge on the artefact? What is its purpose?" Padma peered at the large "7" that adorned the huge vault as she further questioned the Curse-Breaker. Squinting in the low light, Padma took the time to admire the fact that this was the furthest underground she had ever been. Blimey, she had no idea that there were still vaults numbered in the single digits.

Bill shrugged. "Haven't got a clue really. None of the records say; the Ministry hasn't always been as meticulous with its findings. The Department of International Magical Cooperation passed a new regulation—they're sending it straight back to India after declaring it safe for transport. Declared a piece of Magical History or something."

"When was it brought into the vault?" Padma continued, trying to gain any little advantage that she could. She hated going into a project blind; sure it was exciting, but exciting and magic often didn't go well together. Her work as an Unspeakable was very dependent on information, but this assignment was much less . . . _exclusive_ than the others. As a translator, she found herself needed widely throughout different areas of the Ministry but this particular case was quite ordinary if she had been loaned merely to package and mail something back.

Bill briefly looked over some parchments. "Says it was brought to London around 1946 or early 1947 by the Muggles. The Ministry didn't get a hold on it until the 1970s. It's been under lock and key ever since."

"I wonder why it took so long to be found," Padma murmured, frowning.

"The Ministry's a bit more fastidious about checking Gringotts records now—anything with the slightest chance of being Dark is being processed and checked thoroughly."

"And they've got you on clean up duty, I see."

Bill gave her a wry grin as Lomrig and Fugnok started to open the massive vault. Padma and Bill both watched as the goblins wove their respective magic until the door seemingly vanished from sight.

After the vault was opened, Padma stared into the dark abyss before taking her wand in hand and muttering _Lumos Maxima_. Bill stood slightly in front of her, his own wand adorned with light as the goblins followed behind with lanterns. The vault was quickly filled with a warm yellow glow as the light began to push the darkness back. Within the center of the impossibly massive vault was an elaborate black arch adorned with intricate carvings—close to Sanskrit in nature, Padma believed—surrounding the arch was a purple shield, likely put in place to prevent accidental tampering or cursing. In the center of the arch were three gems—gems that she recognized from the stories her mother used to tell her.

" _Kali's wrath,_ " Padma murmured as she gazed at the structure.

"You recognize it?" Bill asked, his wand still clutched in his hand as his brow furrowed.

"It's—it's something that I've only heard in fairy tales. I thought my mother was joking when she told my sister and me. I'm not so sure about this arch but those gems, they're legendary." Padma's fingers went to stroke the stone around her own neck. Her mother had just given her a new one a few months ago, replacing the one she had worn during her time at Hogwarts.

She still remembered the identical heart-shaped gold necklaces that her father had given her and Parvati just before getting their Hogwarts's letters. Each had the letter "P" and Padma remembered changing hers blue to match her House colors. On their twenty-fifth birthday, their mother had given them new necklaces. Parvati had been given a Moonstone—to open her heart (in light of Lavender's death and in hopes that she would settle down and given them a few grandchildren)—while Padma's had been a brilliant blue sapphire.

Her mother had jokingly stated that the blue sapphire was the _Syamantak Mani—_ the famed jewel of heaven that had once adorned the necklace of the Sun god, Surya. This, of course, was not true. The real jewel had been a ruby, not a blue sapphire. Muggles had been the one to spread the rumor of the blue sapphire - only because they had been unable to find the real _Syamantak Mani_. She had been told that the necklace had been passed down her mother's family and given to the eldest daughter.

"Well, you know what they say about fairy tales." Padma gave him a derisive look as Bill chuckled quietly.

"There were four jewels of heaven: the _Kaustabha Mani_ , the _Chinta Mani_ , the _Rudra Mani_ , and the _Syamantak Mani_. When these four are brought together, it was said it was possible to bring heaven to its knees," Padma droned from memory, trying to rack her brain for more information.

"But I only see three," Bill said as he inspected the arch. True to Bill's words, the only gems visible were a milky-white opal, an orange-yellow imperial topaz, and a cloudy blue moonstone.

Padma shook her head. "There's a slot for the additional jewel, it looks like whoever stole the arch didn't know it was missing something. Lucky for us, it means that the arch is probably useless. The Runes wouldn't be able to function properly without the correct energy source and the inclusion of the right jewels is crucial." She pointed at the empty slot, feeling certain that she was correct. It made more sense now why the Ministry hadn't found the artefact until decades later and was probably deemed worthless enough to give back to India.

Bill nodded as he lifted his wand in the air. "Alright. Stand back, I'm dissolving the barrier. Lomrig and I will go through the standard procedure. According to the vault description, the barrier isn't absorbing curses. It's merely absorbing the residual magical signature and preventing it from corrupting the surrounding vaults. It'll be easier to decipher the Runes without it in the way."

Padma made her way to the doorway with Fugnok following at her side. Fugnok soon resurrected a new barrier to prevent the magical backlash from harming them as Padma watched Bill give the signal. Both wizard and goblin began to cast spells, though the goblin's method was different from anything Padma had ever seen before. The purple barrier began to dissipate slowly and Padma could feel the ripples of residual magic flow through the air.

The magic itself felt ancient—that was to be expected, of course—but Padma wasn't expecting the melancholy that accompanied it. It was almost as though the artefact was crying out; whether it was in pain or grief, Padma was hesitant to find out.

After the barrier was gone and Bill declared it safe enough to get closer, Padma quickly took out some heavy-set volumes as well as her enchanted glasses. Stowing her wand safely away in her satchel, Padma immediately went to work. Loose parchment rustled like tree leaves in the breeze as she began translating and copying the Runes into her notes. Bill, who had some experience in eastern Runes from his work in Egypt, also began to help copy them down for later translation. The goblins merely stood at a distance, watching the pair in silence. Padma had to look over her first line of translation almost three times before realizing what she had in front of her.

The Runes themselves were not complicated, they were simple looking by all accounts but their meaning was something else entirely. It was well known in the Wizarding World that a single Rune could be used for a complex enchantment that couldn't be achieved through hundreds of spoken Charms and wand movements. It was this flexibility that drew Padma to the craft in the first place; there were just so many possibilities to create and her Ravenclaw curiosity was practically swooning at the piece in front of her.

"Any luck?" She heard Bill ask.

"I've definitely seen this before but there's something," Padma began pacing around the expansive room, trying to figure out the problem set before her. "There's just something off about the arch. The magic that's coming off the artefact is well within my expectations for its function but—"

"Your expectations?" Bill quickly interjected, "Hold on. You _know_ what this thing does?"

Padma briefly turned her head towards the Curse-Breaker and nodded. "This Rune, _Atman_ , means soul." Padma then pointed to another Rune that she had her enchanted quill elegantly copy for her. "And this Rune, _Kala_ , has multiple meanings—it could mean time, darkness, fate or even death."

Bill's confused look begged elaboration.

Padma struggled with the wording, hoping to keep it from sounding as absurd as she thought it was. "I think that whoever created this archway was concerned with Soul bonds. This arch is supposed to form a portal of some kind—a portal that would take you to your Soul bond or at least in theory."

Soul bonds were mysterious and powerful things in the magical world. They were similar to blood rituals in that little was known about them. Soul bonds were volatile things. Merging your magic with someone else had the potential for great power—it not only lent immense magical reserves but the focus to wield them properly. Unfortunately, this power did not come easily. It was much more likely that you would never meet your Match - in fact, it was much more likely that your Match was long dead before you even entered the world. To meet one's Match was considered to be very, very fortunate—a true, once-in-a-millennia encounter. It is said that when one meets the other half—your Match, as wizards liked to call it—the Soul mark would appear on your skin _only_ for you and your Match to see. According to some texts, it was this way that wizards were able to confirm that this was indeed a Soul bond and not merely a Blood bond (which were much more artificial and forcibly made).

Soul bonds were much more common in magical creatures that took only one mate—such as goblins—or in some antiquated magical communities (like some villages in her native India and others where the ancient rites were practiced more often). Every creature was given a soul— _sometimes_ this soul wielded magic—and usually this didn't have any untoward effects. People could live their lives quite happily even if they never found the other half of their soul. But should the two halves ever meet only then to be separated—the entire world was at their magical mercy.

Her mother had told her and Parvati stories about Soul bonds. She could remember her sister swooning over how "romantic" the idea but Padma could only shudder. Just because two people were Matched did not necessarily mean that they instantly loved each other, in all senses, it merely meant they were _stuck_ with each other. Padma had cringed at the prospect, finding out that you were stuck with someone you barely knew for all eternity didn't appeal to her one bit. It had frightened her as a little girl and it still frightened her now.

Bill whistled appreciatively; Soul bonds were powerful things, not necessarily Dark but not exactly Light either. They were more Primal or Elemental, something his corner of the Wizarding World had never really experienced before.

"Is it too dangerous to pack up?" He asked, gazing at the archway with a newfound air of caution.

Padma shrugged. "I need more time to translate the rest of these Runes. If I find out exactly what ritual it was used for, it'll probably be better." She turned back to her notes as her brow furrowed. "While I'm pretty sure that the archway is totally useless without that fourth stone, it's the fact that it's still releasing residual magic that's quite concerning."

"It's probably the main reason why the barrier was resurrected, residual magic is usually never a good thing and it's best to keep it contained." Padma nodded in agreement. Artefacts often absorbed the magic that frequently left the bodies of wizards and witches - supercharging them to the point where it could be dangerous. It was especially so in the case of older artefacts which were designed to be sensitive to the slightest drop of magic.

The artefact wasn't overtly dangerous—it wouldn't have survived out in the Muggle world so long if it had been—and the Ministry would have put a priority on it otherwise. Then again, the Ministry hadn't been exactly competent in the last few decades especially if Fudge's performance was considered the norm. Thicknesse, of course, had been sacked and replaced by Kingsley Shacklebolt—a change that led to revolutionize the other departments of the Ministry of Magic. This could possibly explain why they were sending Padma to clean up these "loose" ends rather than keep her focused on her duty as an Unspeakable.

"Is it safe if I inspect a little closer? I've always been a bit . . . hands-on in my research," Padma asked aloud as she marveled over the carvings. They were hand-carved and not done by magic. A strange detail indeed since wizards were notoriously lazy for tasks that did not involve magic.

"It should be fine. This item is labeled as Non-dangerous and I've done more than the usual standard counter-curse just to be sure." Padma smiled in glee as Bill gave his assent. She began to run her fingers along the carvings, marveling at what she was seeing. There was a complex amalgamation of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes that made her head spin. The numbers seemed to be referring to dates—or, at least, that's what she _thought_ —there was another set of calculations specifically to the Time Displacement. Padma's forehead was furrowed in concentration, shifting up onto her toes to inspect the Runes more carefully. She felt an odd burning sensation near the base of her throat. When she glanced downwards all she could see was a bright, piercing light that blinded her eyes.

"Padma!"

The shouts in English and Gobbledegook startled her, shifting her off-balance and causing her to fall forward through the gate of the arch with a light hum registering in her eardrums.

* * *

 **A big thanks to JKR for allowing us to play in her sandbox. To those of you who recognize this chapter, congrats and know that this is an entirely new beast. I may upload the previous iteration with enough persuasion. Please review.**


	2. The Witch in His Bed

Tom Riddle lied on his bed while his bones steeped in anger. This was the last summer he would be forced to endure this hellhole, he swore it to himself. The Muggle war was still in full force and yet again his request to stay at Hogwarts had been denied—Dumbledore's doing he was certain of it. The orphanage was somehow even shabbier than before with rations diminishing the already paltry foodstuffs provided. Soldiers, after all, needed food far more than orphans. The only boon had been that most of his old tormentors and pests were long gone—either lying about their age to enlist or choosing to do something better than wasting away _here_.

He closed his eyes, attempting to allow himself to rest for just a moment. The orphanage was quieter than he had ever remembered and it unsettled him greatly. It was the kind of quiet that preceded death and the entire city suffered from it. He felt exposed and vulnerable here in a place where he wasn't allowed to use magic. Tom had deep reservations about the underage magic law, especially considering how deeply it inconvenienced him in particular. Exceptions should be made for _exceptional_ wizards. Arrogant purebloods had little inkling about how devastating the war actually was. Why would they care about Muggle buildings or Muggle lives?

All summer he had been forced to wait and wonder. What if an air raid occurred? What if it happened while he slept, unable to summon his magic in time to protect himself? What could he even do to protect himself if an entire building collapsed around him? Here he was, likely the greatest wizard in a generation, facing his potential end due to some idiotic Muggles.

Tom Riddle had found it rather difficult to sleep this particular summer.

He supposed he could have asked some of his acquaintances but he was far too savvy to know that openly admitting weakness was a social faux pas in Slytherin house. Letting his housemates know just how deeply this Muggle war was affecting him would only bring more attention to his less-than-exceptional background. It would also undoubtedly set back the very connections he was trying to cultivate. Tom was learning that persuasion was a fickle though effective mistress and these secondary Purebloods (in both magic and inheritance) were very, very capricious. All too eager to tie their broomstick to the brightest star in the sky. To gain power he could not look weak, even in the face of destruction.

He tried to close his eyes once more but his magic remained agitated. Something was about to happen, his magic could sense it. His body was rigid as he lied still, waiting. All was quiet until Tom heard a faint ringing in his ears—he bolted upright wondering if he was hearing a far-off siren miles away. He stood quickly, refusing to be caught flat on his back. The noise only became louder and louder—he now realized that it wasn't a siren after all but rather a humming noise that was quickly gaining strength. He glanced out the small window of his room but found nothing unusual occurring out on the street. There were still people milling about as it was just a few hours past noon.

The humming only got louder. His jaw clenched as he placed his wand in his hand; its effect was immediate, the soothing weight in his hand and the warmth of his magic mollified him. He was powerful— he was magic! — _nothing could harm him_.

He paced the room as his inner tension rose. It was as if at any moment his magic was ready to snap. Precognition was never a skill he thought he possessed but the way his instincts screamed made him wary. Something was going to happen.

A light flashed suddenly, blinding Tom. His magic immediately lurched as though struck while his mind raced for possible counter-curses. He felt clumsy and slow since he had never expected magic _here_ of all places even though just as quickly the light faded into the bland gray of Wool's. His vision cleared while his heart was still pounding within his chest.

At first glance, there was nothing noticeably different about the Spartan room he had reluctantly occupied for most of his life. The same beige-gray walls, the shabby dresser by the corner and his second-hand trunk. But on his bed—the same standard cot issued by the orphanage for all its wards—was a girl wearing navy blue witch's robes. The robes were baggy and ill-fitting. She was still, almost unnaturally so until Tom noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest under the heavy cloth.

There was blood on her face—dark and black like someone had smeared tar under her nose and over her lips and cheeks. His wand hand twitched as he assessed this intruder in his bed. Keeping his eyes trained on her, he dared to step closer.

She looked peaceful lying there covered in blood. His magic was oddly calm about this new addition to his room, reacting as though she was just another piece of furniture rather than a living, breathing stranger.

He took another step, silently shifting through a dozen curses in his mind—each one more deadly and illegal than the last.

Tom felt the strangest urge to Scourgify the blood off her face so that he might get a better look at her features. He had never seen her before and he was nearly certain of it. He had difficulty forgetting faces—the only one he had managed to forget was his own mother's. Not that he wanted to remember the face of some Muggle anyway. All others though, he always remembered. His confidence in his memory was only second to his faith in his magic.

Even if he wanted to clean the blood off her face using magic, he wouldn't be able to. His lips curled in displeasure. The Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic was like a maggot under his skin—highly irritating and in desperate need of removal. Alas, he was only fifteen and going into his fifth year. He'd need to wait at least two more years before risking flagrant uses of magic in an area populated by so many Muggles. Learning that his privileged Pureblood housemates would never have any trouble practicing their own magic in their centuries-old manors had made him grind his teeth. Especially since those same manors were likely also warded to the teeth against Muggles, including their bombs.

The vein in his neck throbbed as he clenched his jaw painfully tight. Making up his mind, Tom turned to the door. He needed to make sure he had never seen her before and that meant seeing her face without the blood. A part of him was wary to turn his back on the intruder but she hadn't so much as twitched and he was quite certain that he could strike first if the need arose.

He walked briskly, knowing how to avoid the children in the halls (though most if not all knew to avoid _him_ by now). He soon carried a rag as well as a basinful of water into his room without being seen. He had always clung to the shadows as a boy and now he wore them like a familiar piece of clothing.

Much to his confused relief, she was still lying on his bed as though he had never left. Not that anyone would dare ever enter his room except for Mrs. Cole. Only the matron ever bothered to deal with him directly even if the Muggle pursed her lips every time she had to speak to him.

Carefully, Tom drew closer to the bed as he tried to reason a way for him to wipe off the blood without leaving himself open to attack. He could always wake her himself and demand to know why she ended up in his room of all places.

Even with this in mind, Tom found himself wringing the cloth quietly before approaching her. His movements were slow and methodical. The rag quickly became dark with blood as it revealed smooth, unmarred brown skin to his eyes. Her flesh was warm though she didn't react to the damp cloth. Her features were completely unfamiliar to him—making it highly unlikely that she was a student at Hogwarts. Tom had made it a point to know everyone worth knowing, filtering prospective connections with a very fine sieve. It was especially curious considering that she appeared to be the same age as him.

The longer she remained still the uneasier he grew. His mind rifled through all the possible curses that could leave someone in a catatonic state. He doubted that this was an ordinary sleeping spell. He wasn't a healer, however, so his theories were little more than just speculation at this point. This deficiency in his knowledge irked him. It had always felt to Tom that he was playing an enormous game of catch-up though it had relieved him to discover how truly mediocre most wizards were. Nonetheless, he felt as though he was constantly trying to step outside the shadow cast by wizards far more experienced and knowledged and privileged than himself.

As he tossed the rag into the basin, he noticed a glint of gold from beneath the robes. It came from a gold chain that he could see around her neck. Thin and extremely delicate though it had still caught the light even inside his dim and dreary room. Using the end of his wand, he carefully and gently lifted the chain from inside her robes until it revealed an ice-blue sapphire.

The color of the gem was curious as he had never seen anything like it before—it seemed to almost glow with unusual magic. Oddly, it didn't feel malicious in intent and as though hypnotized by its shine, his fingers reached out to the stroke the stone's smooth surface. Jolting in surprise, Tom took several steps back as he berated himself for his idiocy. He had read about cursed objects before— _what in the bloody hell was he doing touching one?_ Still, as several moments passed and nothing untoward had happened, he stepped closer again while staring at the jewel that laid so innocently on top of the witch's robes.

He suspected that the witch had likely come from wealth—those robes were fine quality and the necklace whispered of ancient magic. That was, of course, if she hadn't merely _stolen_ those items. Considering how ill-fitting the robes were, it was not completely unlikely. Tom wasn't nearly naïve enough to believe that she had come into his room _completely_ by honest means.

There were several annoying disadvantages when it came to being an orphan but the lack of funds was particularly irritating. Though he had learned tricks to broaden his meager means, watching his classmates throw around their unearned wealth so carelessly had jaded him. Their wealth was a form of power but it was a weak one. Especially considering how some of the richest of his class were also the most useless at magic.

His fingers reached out to stroke the edges of the stone again as he considered the situation. Tom noticed that the chain was especially smooth to the touch almost as though the interlocking links were actually moving. Looking at them more carefully, they almost appeared to move like miniature snakes—twisting and coiling into one long strand. Undoubtedly expensive, Tom's mind was already formulating ways to remove the necklace from her neck without the witch ever noticing.

His index finger and thumb began to rub the chain, admiring its craftsmanship until his fingers actually brushed the side of her neck.

Usually, between two people this casual brush of skin was nothing extraordinary to note but between Tom and this supposed witch—it was a very, very fortunate encounter indeed.

Tom's magic literally sparked from his fingers as a crackle resounded throughout the small, drab room. Gooseflesh rose on his skin as his entire body practically stood rigid at attention. His magic was . . . _delighted?_ Confusion and concern and curiosity warred in his mind before concern ultimately conquered. Tom shuffled backward as though he had been violently burned though he felt no pain just . . . _complete?_

It was unsettling but at the same time invigorating—he felt alive. His magic practically vibrating with potential, nearly intoxicated with the sudden influx of new magic. Tom jolted, forcing his magic back from what he saw as an inherently malicious force. For a moment he had felt powerful, yes, but something had fundamentally changed about his magic. The girl on his bed flinched as he moved further away, her eyelashes fluttering as though she struggled to wake under her own power. Spellbound, he watched her face. Her eyelids lifted and it was though he was watching the sun break through the clouds—her golden-brown irises soft and unfocused on his own blue ones. She blinked slowly, as though gently removing the sleep from her sight. His breath caught as she abruptly rose to sit on his bed, his magic still and waiting.

 _"Teleportation?"_ Her voice was silk. _"Unexpected but I suppose with the correct_ Arithmanic _scheme. . ."_ Her words were odd just by their meaning alone but what struck Tom into shocked silence was her fluent Parseltongue.

 _"Speaker?"_ He asked abruptly in a hiss, for this had changed everything. He had never met a human Speaker before. Snakes had always been rather interesting company but at the end of the day, their own knowledge of magic was decidedly limited. Snakes could not cast their own magic, after all. Suddenly the strange witch in his bed seemed like an unforeseen boon.

 _"Speaker?"_ She repeated as she swung her legs over the cot as if to stand up. She sounded absent-minded as she continued, " _I don't think that was quite the right translation for the Rune I saw but then again it appeared to be proto-Sanskrit based in. . ."_ Her brow suddenly furrowed in annoyance. "Where are my notes?"

"You're speaking Parseltongue," Tom stated plainly. The daft witch seemed to have lost her own wits about her since she was switching between languages without even knowing it. His irritation was tempered by his curiosity.

"Parseltongue?" She blinked as she abruptly stood up. The sudden motion seemed too much for the witch, however, as she fell back onto the cot nearly as fast. She clutched her head in pain as she muttered under her breath, "Parseltongue! That's it! Oh, where are my books?"

Tom watched with disdain and apprehension as blood began to trickle down from her nose. Of course, the first _human_ Speaker he would come across would be a mad-woman. He was already feeling vexed by her presence and he had scarcely said four words to the witch.

"If you must bleed, I'd rather you didn't do so on my bed," Tom chided curtly. It took a great deal of effort not to show the sneer on his face, holding onto his public facade outside of Hogwarts felt strange.

"Bleed?" Her left hand rose to her face as if just now realizing the blood flowing from her nose. It was odd how that irked him—her blatant disregard for her own health was unsettling. He reasoned it was because he did not want to deal with a _dead_ witch in his room—he very much doubted that anyone not even Slughorn would be willing to look the other way in that case.

She glanced down at her robes, frowning. Her fingers clutched the stone dangling from her neck and she eyed it carefully. "Parivartana."

Tom hid a frown. She hadn't been speaking Parseltongue since he didn't understand her and he absolutely loathed not knowing things. He fixed his grasp on his wand which had been deceivingly relaxed.

"Curiouser and curiouser. Well, I best head back to Diagon Alley—I suppose Curse-Breaker Weasley and the others received quite a shock when I disappeared." He vigilantly watched as she rummaged through her navy blue robes. "And, of course, my wand is missing too." She sighed before looking at him directly. "I'm sorry to impose any further but do your parents have a Floo I could use?"

The question didn't sting as it might have once when he was younger but that was a long time ago and Tom was no longer that weak little child. "It's a Muggle dwelling, I'm afraid the nearest Floo is likely several miles away."

The witch nodded but didn't comment on the way Tom had sidestepped part of her question. "Could you manage to spare me some ink and parchment then? I'll need to inform my department of what's happened."

Tom was rather curious as to how she expected to accomplish that without a wand or an owl but ultimately his desire to know more about the witch's origins won out. "Department?"

"Oh yes." She watched as he retrieved a scrap of parchment and a quill from his dresser. Oddly he was struck by the echo of a memory. The only other Magical being to ever visit him at Wool's was Dumbledore and that particular meeting had gone quite differently. "I'm an Unspeakable."

Tom knew very little about Unspeakables besides the fact that they all worked in the Department of Mysteries. Nott had described it as a place where old Ravenclaws went to die—experimenting on the most boring topics in Magic's history. Considering how his other Purebloods compatriots had quickly agreed, Tom had given it little thought but _that_ had clearly been a mistake. One that he would need to correct post-haste. The witch was quite young for an Unspeakable, judging how she looked scarcely older than himself; it made him wonder.

She handled the quill expertly as she scrawled something almost too fast for his eyes to see before quickly folding the parchment into a crude-looking bird. She rubbed the quill nib into the wet blood on her left hand before writing what he could only infer were Runes. They certainly didn't look anything like the ones Professor Harang droned on about. He felt a sudden deep-seated annoyance at Professor Harang's incompetence—instead of teaching Runes he merely made the class memorize pages after pages of inscriptions. Tom was still the top of his class but he had neglected further self-study in Ancient Runes for more practical pursuits like staving his never-ending curiosity for Charms, Transfiguration and, of course, the Dark Arts.

The Runes on the parchment flashed gold before staying a jet-black darker than the ink he had given her. She cradled the parchment bird in her hands before going over to the small window in his room. Nudging it open, she blew onto her outstretched palms and the bird took flight, disappearing from view.

"What's your name?" Tom asked, feigning a nonchalance that was only convincing because of his superior acting skills. This witch's casual use of blood Runes was more enough to convince him that she would be a powerful asset. Her knowledge was valuable enough to envy a hundred times over.

"Padma, Padma Patil." She smiled as she wiped the remaining blood off her left hand using the rag left in the basin. "Apologies for barging in like this. And you are. . .?"

Tom hesitated before quickly smoothing it over. "Charmed. I'm—" He was interrupted by a loud knock on the open window where a Ministry owl carried a plain beige envelope.

"Well that was certainly quick," Padma noted with astonishment. "Normally everyone just ignores my memos."

The envelope detached itself from the owl's leg as it levitated in the air. The flap began to move animatedly it spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice:

 _ **Dear Mr. Riddle,**_

 _ **We have received intelligence that Unknown Magicks were performed at twenty-six minutes past three this afternoon in a Muggle-inhabited area. Please be advised that this serves as your first and last warning. Further use of magic will result in immediate expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.**_

 _ **—Orla Beirne, Office of the Improper Use of Magic, M.o.M.**_

"Unknown Magicks?" Tom echoed, feeling numb. While the threat of expulsion had always loomed over his head with Dumbledore as deputy headmaster, Tom had never faced any consequences for anything considering how deep he had Slughorn and the others in his pocket. Certainly, he had entertained the possibility—the fantasy—of casting some highly immoral curses at Wool's but he wasn't nearly enough of a buffoon to actually get _caught_.

Almost immediately after the owl took flight once more, a crow soon perched on the windowsill. The silver brace on its leg caught the light as another envelope detached itself from its carrier. Pale silver in color, the envelope rippled and shimmered in the light before reciting its message (another woman's voice again but deeper than the last):

 _ **Dear Mr. Riddle,**_

 _ **Please disregard the previous letter as the appropriate authorities have been dispatched. Please stand back. Your cooperation is appreciated.**_

 _ **—Unspeakable Augusta Urey, Department of Mysteries, M.o.M.**_

Quicker than a thought, two more wizards appeared in his room. The older wizard, judging by the patchy brown hair and receding hairline, had a stern frown upon his face as he stared at Tom. "What in Merlin's name is going on in here? The Office of the Improper Use of Magic has flooded my desk with memos and droppings alike—falling over themselves about the magical readings coming from this very room."

"Oh you know how Orla gets, Croaker," the witch standing next to him spoke. Her voice matched the one from the second letter addressed to Tom. She was dressed in a warm orange color, her robes appeared silken on her body as they rippled on their own. She was young, definitely younger than her colleague judging by her unlined dark skin and the way her mouth was drawn in mirth. "Always eager that one."

Croaker grumbled as he gave Tom and Padma a look over—Tom had noticed how Padma had gone unnaturally silent in the face of the two new visitors. Tom opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the ministry witch. "Mr. Riddle, a soon-to-be fifth year at Hogwarts ( _better study for those O.W.L.s!_ ), there have been reports of temporal disruptions since thirteen past three today, Friday, July 17th." The witch read off a scroll of parchment she had retrieved from her dragonhide satchel—likely the product of an unlucky Welsh Green. "As representatives of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Croaker and I have come to investigate."

"Thank you, Unspeakable Urey," Croaker intoned.

"Temporal disruptions?" Tom asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Not to mention that a bird made of parchment made it through the wards that have protected and guarded the Department of Mysteries for centuries." Croaker looked down his nose at both Tom and Padma. "And just who are we to thank for this busy afternoon, hm?"

Padma took a deep steadying breath, drawing the attention of the officials. She appeared as though she was mentally fortifying herself for the interrogation that was looming on the horizon. "Before I answer any of your questions, Unspeakables, I must know the year."

Tom blinked rapidly. Temporal disruptions coupled with her strange robes as well as her not knowing the year?

"1942," Croaker responded, his eyes never leaving Padma's face. "How long lost are you?"

She swallowed and Tom could see her nerves tremble from the action. "Over sixty years, sir." Padma shifted, before slowly removing a bronze badge from her robes. With trepidation, she continued, "Unspeakable Patil requesting asylum and aid under Article C Subsection 99."

"A time traveler?" Urey whispered in awe, excitement dawning on her face. Her mouth was drawn into a wide, bright smile. "We haven't had one since—since Mintumble herself!"

"Calm yourself, Urey," Croaker chided. "Unspeakable Patil, your request is granted conditionally—you must return to the D.o.M. under my custody immediately."

She nodded, unsurprised by Croaker's request. Tom could see that she was wary though, judging how stiffly she stood. Urey, however, clapped her hands together which momentarily startled Tom. "Oh and that paper bird you made was just brilliant! So much better than dealing with owl droppings all the time. Is that what we have in the future?"

Croaker interrupted before Padma could answer. "Have you left this room or had any contact with anyone besides Mr. Riddle?"

Padma's brow furrowed. "Not that I am aware of."

Croaker sighed as he rubbed his face. "At least there's some daisies in the dragon dung here. Mintumble just wandered around the entire bloody place." Croaker turned to his colleague. "Check all items for contamination and inform the Office of Improper Use of Magic that this falls under our purview. If Orla kicks up a fuss, send all of her letters straight into the fireplace until further notice."

"Right-o, Boss." Urey responded cheekily with a mock salute. She then jerked her head in Tom's direction. "What about this one? We'll need to inform Hogwarts considering his ward status just to keep things on the up-and-up."

"Inform Dumbledore," Croaker grumbled, clearing wanting nothing more to do with Tom. "Dippet's still in South America if I remember correctly and Slughorn couldn't keep a secret like this to himself."

Urey snorted in agreement. "Likely'll try to use Patil to discover next use of dragon blood."

Tom couldn't help but privately agree about Slughorn—any Slytherin worth their scales would be tempted by the knowledge residing inside of Padma's head. Even his mind was reeling with possibilities. He was, however, greatly displeased that this would be brought to Dumbledore's attention.

"Mr. Riddle, please stay under the supervision of Unspeakable Urey. We'll need to check you for any temporal corruption after decontaminating this room. Unspeakable Patil, come with me." Croaker withdrew from his robes something Tom found especially odd for an Unspeakable to have on their person—a plain, silver fountainhead pen. He watched as the older wizard took out his wand from his sleeve and waved it over the pen, muttering the word Portus under his breath.

Tom mentally stored that spell away for future use. Portkey creation was highly regulated and none of the books he had found in Hogwarts had even mentioned the proper incantation let alone the wand movements for creating one. It would undoubtedly be useful considering as he was too young to Apparate legally. Tom wondered if the creation of portkeys was also carefully monitored. Though perhaps the Department of Mysteries operated outside the general laws that governed the wizarding populace. Either way, becoming an Unspeakable was sounding increasingly lucrative.

"Time?" Croaker asked gruffly.

Urey retrieved a platinum pocket watch from within her orange robes. "Forty-six past three. Twelve seconds."

Croaker grunted in acknowledgment before waving Padma, or rather, Unspeakable Patil over to his side. Tom watched as she delicately placed a single finger on the pen. "Five," Croaker muttered. "Four. . .three. . .two. . ."

The last thing Tom remembered was Croaker's voice gently rasping "one" before the world collapsed around him.

* * *

Urey looked down at the two young wizards resting peacefully on two identical cots that had been pushed together. She chanced a glance at her older colleague whose face was drawn into a grimace. Croaker greatly and utterly despised unexpected complications. A trait which was rather odd considering his high ranking in the Department of Mysteries—on a good day, they'd encounter several oddities before lunch.

"Looks like we'll have to call in Lovegood on this one," Urey spoke, finally breaking the silence. She knew full well that he'd stew and brood as he always tended to if she didn't say something now.

"This is a time travel anomaly first and foremost, Urey." His frown deepened and his tone resembling more of a child's than a man past his fourth decade. Croaker even sniffed for good measure.

"Soul bonds do fall under his purview, Croaker," She reminded him gently. "You know how Lovegood makes a mention of it in nearly every memo. He's likely been for something like this to fall into his lap for decades."

"Don't remind me," Croaker grumbled. "His damn spotted owl leaves droppings on everything except the bloody memo every single time."

"That parchment owl was brilliant." Urey was long used to Croaker's crotchetiness. She had been working with the wizard for over a decade now. The key was always to distract him from one of his tirades earlier than later. "And that mastery of Runes at such a young age? Do you think we start recruiting Hogwarts students before their N.E.W.T.s?"

"We don't assign badges to just any buffoon who can wave a wand. There's a very vigorous examination that prevents it." Croaker was firm in his belief but Urey had her doubts. Unspeakable Patil looked awfully young for someone so skilled. It was odd to think that someone so young had managed to pass the initiation that all Unspeakables underwent. Patil must have been a rare talent even for the future. Croaker sighed, stepping back from the sleeping pair. "None of this sits well with me."

"Your gut bothering you again, old man? I told you to lay off the extra rasher of bacon this morning." Urey smirked but she didn't feel the mirth of her statement. As excited as she had been, the complications were becoming increasingly unfavorable.

Croaker harrumphed but didn't take the bait. "We were lucky that my gut sensed there was something wrong otherwise the magical backlash from separating a newly bonded pair would have killed us and all those muggles on that street."

Urey nodded solemnly; it had been extremely fortunate that Croaker had managed to knock the pen out of Unspeakable Patil's hand when he did. Urey herself had barely managed to throw up her strongest shield charm in time.

The near-separation was enough to leave the room in shambles—the bed and the dresser had turned to ash from the magical backlash—and now another team of Unspeakables was clearing out the contents though Urey doubted they'd find anything useful in the debris. A team of Obliviators had also been sent out and with the Muggles so jumpy because of the war, she inferred it would be a very difficult task indeed. If that was the amount of destruction an attempted separation wielded, she had no desire see them actually separate.

Croaker pursed his lips. "Inform Lovegood's assistant, at least Birch still has her wits about her. We can't send Unspeakable Patil home with the bond like this."

"You can't mean to break the bond!" Urey whispered in astonishment. She'd never known Croaker to be so cold, especially considering that it might as well mean death for the both of them.

"The longer she stays here the greater danger she is to the time stream," Croaker stated with finality. "Like it or not, she's here on stolen time."

"What a load of dragon dung this's become." Urey shook her head before setting her eyes back on Croaker. Her large lips pursed in displeasure. "And Dumbledore's requesting an audience."

"Just as well, if we don't get this sorted by September then Mr. Riddle will be unable to attend Hogwarts." Urey thought Croaker spoke far too lightly about essentially expelling a student from Hogwarts for what could only be described as a divine act of magic out of his control. "Bloody Soul bonds—I'll need to update the protocol. _Again._ "

Croaker left the room, leaving Urey to observe the two young ones. They slept peacefully, no doubt due to the heavy dose of Draught of Living Peace they'd been given after Stunning the pair.

The day was getting more and more extraordinary by the moment. Urey just hoped that she would be able to keep up.

* * *

 **Tom Riddle is still a creep who tries to steal things, unfortunately.**

 **One plot-point that has always annoyed me about HP Time Travel fics is how it's usually centered around the main character never getting caught. Entire stories where their secret is never found out except for Dumbledore or the supposed love interest. You mean to tell me that the Department of Mysteries which actually studies time travel would never find out about illegal time travelers? _Kay._**

 **Reviews are treats for the soul :)**


	3. She Wakes

Waking was a dizzying experience. Padma hadn't had a headache like this since the last time she went on a pub crawl with Parvati and ate her weight in cheese toasties and chips. She felt nauseous and her entire body ached as though as she had attempted to climb a mountain barehanded without magic.

Padma opened her eyes slowly which was rather smart considering how bright the room was. The walls and ceiling were the same off-white color. The room wasn't immediately recognizable though it was empty much like a jail cell or hospital room would be. No, she very much doubted she was in Azkaban considering how bright the room was. St Mungo's was still a possibility though she hadn't seen a room like this one before—at least not one without a door. Padma didn't immediately panic until she turned her head and saw the boy from earlier lying in a cot pushed against her own.

 _What in Kali's name happened?_ She remembered holding onto the portkey Croaker had made, intent on going to the D.o.M for solutions and answers (though perhaps not necessarily in that order). After that was just blank—an unsettling hole in her memory both aggravating and discomforting. Now the senior Unspeakable, as well as his colleague Urey, were nowhere to be found.

"It wasn't a dream," she murmured. It couldn't be seeing as she had living, breathing evidence lying just next to her. "I'm in the past." It was surreal to think that just a few hours ago she had been decades in the future. Padma groaned, the thought more taxing than she was completely capable of at the moment. Arithmancy hadn't been her best subject and just the thought of how twisted the time stream was due to her sudden arrival in the past was exacerbating her migraine.

Padma didn't normally balk at the first hint of strangeness considering the fact that she was an Unspeakable but now seemed as good as a time as any to let her thoughts or, more truthfully, _fears_ run rampant.

Time travel. . .even death was always a possibility for Unspeakables in their line of work. Magic was wondrous, certainly, but never quite safe. Padma, however, had thought that she had already experienced several lifetimes of danger and had been more than relieved to spend the rest of her days behind a sturdy desk. She had fought and won a war for Kali's sake. More adventure was not something she necessarily wanted or sought.

Why had she arrived here in 1942—over sixty years in the past? Perhaps her initial theory was completely wrong and the archway merely transported souls to a different time than their own. She mulled over that possibility while keeping her grief for her lost books and wand to a minimum. Padma tried to keep herself from despair since the situation wasn't completely hopeless. She was confident that her colleagues would send her home—Saul Croaker was the foremost authority on Time Travel and would be for decades. He would send her home, she was sure of it.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Padma wondered if anyone had even noticed her disappearance considering how tangled and looped time magic could be. This wasn't her area of expertise—she knew the basics as all Unspeakables did—but she'd rather puzzle over a weathered and antediluvian set of Runes. Maybe if it all went well she'd soon be sharing the tale with Parvati over a fresh pot of chai.

Her eyes wandered over to the Riddle boy who was still sleeping deeply. Odd name, if she tried to think about it. The name itself seemed to cause some dissonance in her mind almost like hearing the hollow echo of a bell from far away—low and unsettling.

Something about it turned her stomach but she wasn't completely sure why. She didn't blame herself though, the pain in her skull made it difficult to keep track of all her wits. Why would she know that name? His features weren't familiar—though conventionally attractive there wasn't really anything interesting about them. She had the vaguest sense that he was likely related to someone she knew—likely a possible ancestor—but that wasn't at all unusual considering how close some purebloods were. They were all cousins of cousins.

Padma let out a deep breath before gathering the strength to sit up. Her body protested against the action but she made sure her will was stronger. From this new vantage point, she realized that the room was rather small, only managing to fit in the two cots and few wooden chairs but it was otherwise completely void of color or other furnishings. It looked rather like a rush job to Padma's eyes, as though whoever furnished the room only had enough time to transfigure objects rather than import actual furniture. There was something odd about the way the cot felt against her skin that had tipped her off about its superficial transformation. Her fingertips idly brushed the fabric of the off-white cot only to confirm her suspicions. Someone had transfigured a desk to make this cot.

Her eyes glanced around the room. The most unsettling feature was the lack of windows—it made Padma's skin prickle at the realization. A cell then if not St. Mungo's. Even the Janus Thickey Ward had windows even if they locked the doors at night. The lack of the door was just as unsettling—someone or someones did not want them to leave easily.

She took stock of her suddenly baggy robes which were very peculiar since Parvati had custom tailored these robes to fit her exactly. Knowing how her sister took great pride in her creations, there was something very odd going on indeed. Padma withdrew her necklace from her robes, marveling at its new appearance. The color of the stone itself was lighter and seemed to pulse with unknown magic while the chain itself was moving. Golden links intertwined together like miniature snakes locking themselves into tighter and tighter chains. She was starting to regret not asking her mother more questions about the necklace especially considering the reaction it had with the archway.

Padma touched her face and was astonished to note that it was slightly textured. _She hadn't had spots since she was teen!_ She wished for a mirror but without her wand that was impossible. A physiological change was unexpected but not entirely unwarranted if only she had gotten a better look at those Runes. . .

She pulled up the blue sleeves of her robes, eyes immediately catching onto black ink that stained her skin. Her forearms appeared to be imprinted with what appeared to be the coiling body of a long black snake. The creature was moving – black ink fluid on her skin as it shifted along her forearms and disappeared further up her sleeves. Waking up with a magical tattoo that she had no recollection of was far more spontaneous than Padma was capable of. This seemed more along the lines of whatever hijinks Parvati got up to when she went out on benders. Frightened and cautious, Padma sharply tugged her sleeves down as though keeping it of out sight would make it disappear entirely.

Her eyes looked over at the Riddle boy again, seeking normalcy in the way his breathing was steady and even. It centered her when it felt like she was on the edge of flying to pieces. Padma tried her best to match his breathing as she took note of his plain collared shirt and black trousers. Muggle clothing—second-hand Muggle clothing if her sister had taught her anything. For a moment she felt guilt at dragging what could only be an innocent into this mess but she couldn't allow herself to dwell on whatever chaos she had introduced into the time stream.

Apparently, she had been speaking Parseltongue—a language that had completely died out in Magical Great Britain. Not even Harry Potter, the famed last Parselmouth, spoke it anymore for he was far too content to let the language fade into oblivion. He had a good reason considering who the _other_ Speaker had been. Her skin prickled at the thought.

Padma had studied Parselscript briefly during a small research trip in Pakistan but the spoken ability had always been beyond her. Fluency in Parseltongue was inherited not learned. Even with her knack for Runes, her knowledge of Parselscript had been rather mediocre considering she could only really imitate the way it was written—similar to that of a child copying down lines from one of their favorite stories. Just as Padma was going to linger in the shadow of that memory, her companion woke with a start.

She felt his panic before she saw it with her own two eyes. It made his magic jagged and sharp—like how she imagined the edge of a broken blade to feel—but oddly she didn't feel at all disturbed by it. Then again, fear was the natural response to an unknown location especially since it appeared that they had just been dumped into a makeshift jail cell.

"What's your name?" Padma asked, there was nothing else that could be gleaned from the room and at this very moment it seemed like her lack of knowledge about her potential cellmate could no longer be overlooked. She watched almost enviously as he fluidly sat up, seemingly with none of the stiffness she had herself. Riddle regained his composure, calming his magic so quickly that it made Padma inherently suspicious. _This one knows how to hide things,_ she thought. His eyes were a darker blue than expected and she only noticed the color now as they sat across from each other on their respective cot.

 _"Is that wise?"_

She didn't immediately realize that he was speaking in Parseltongue until she felt the hollow ringing become louder. No, it was very likely that asking for his name was actually the most foolish thing she could do but it felt like the best course of action—the only course of action at this point.

 _"Probably not,"_ she replied, taking the time to register how she sounded in Parseltongue. Did she have an accent? She hadn't been born speaking it after all. It wasn't wise to ask especially considering the added danger her actions now carried. It was a surreal thing to realize that she was the magical equivalent of a pair of shears snipping away at the lines of life as though they were mere threads. Now was likely the best time to employ that legendary Ravenclaw wisdom but it warred with her curiosity and it was steadily losing ground. _"But is it not wise to seek answers?"_

She watched as his eyes narrowed calculatingly. "You're a Ravenclaw, aren't you?"

Padma couldn't help but crack a smile. "What gave it away?"

There was warmth in Riddle's smile but she noticed how it didn't touch his eyes—didn't touch his magic. _He's lying,_ his magic seemed to whisper. "Just a guess."

Her lips twitched. She shouldn't know that—she shouldn't be able to hear what his magic was saying— _she shouldn't know that._ Knowledge had its own power and Padma was already starting to wonder what costs were incurred from the gifts she'd received after falling through the archway. She was a Parselmouth with a magical tattoo that was as beautiful as it was dangerous and several decades lost in the past.

Traveling through time didn't bestow magical powers. Mintumble had aged dramatically after her stint in the past—aging centuries in a number of seconds tended to have that sort of effect. The witch had reportedly turned to dust in front of the eyes of her colleagues.

Every wizard knew unfortunate things happened to those who messed with time. Padma didn't need to be an Unspeakable know that fact.

 _"How long have you been a Speaker?"_ She asked, making certain to remember the word he had used. A rune flashed in the forefront of her mind—speaker, charmer, story-teller. That seemed to be a safer topic than his name. Knowledge acquired could not be unlearned—only forgotten.

His eyes were cold though his mouth had an easy smile. She got the sense that he had spent time training himself to smile in front of a mirror before going out and showing it to the world. It felt more meticulous and prepared than natural. _"Nearly all my life. I found a garden snake in the yard once and that's how I knew."_ His pride was obvious and it tempered his otherwise gaunt features. _"Are you implying that you became a Speaker?"_

She saw her own curiosity reflected in eyes. A fascination that could spark a bonfire. Dangerous as it was seductive.

Padma could only nod as her mind raced with questions. _Why was I sent here? Why was I sent to this time—to him?_

"Where did you get that necklace?" He asked. "Why does it have its own magic?"

"My mother." That was a safe answer seeing as it was true. The second question was deceivingly difficult to answer. The thought of her necklace being one of the famed Jewels of Heaven was preposterous and yet…

His silence said multitudes. Padma mentally kicked herself for answering when she remembered the way he had side-stepped the question about his parents. _A muggle dwelling_ , he called it. Such a detached description of the place where he rested his head at night. While she wasn't Parvati, Padma could certainly hear what was obviously unsaid. An orphan likely with no living magical relatives.

 _"Where are we?"_ Padma listened and wondered at his sudden switch back to Parseltongue. He seemed to prefer it when speaking with her. Padma could imagine he likely had a fondness for it—everyone knew that Parseltongue was blood-based—perhaps it made him feel closer to his family in some strange way.

 _"I don't know."_ She considered sharing her thoughts about it being a jail cell but chose to keep her silence. There was no use in worrying him; he was still a Hogwarts student as Unspeakable Urey had mentioned and Padma wanted him to enjoy that for as long as possible. Especially since she and countless of her peers didn't.

Riddle didn't like that answer considering how it made the curve of his mouth sharper. His magic was unsettled and the longer Padma looked at him the more she could the fear beginning to bleed out of his features. What good was a wall if he let things slip so easily? Perhaps it was because she was too savvy for him; she had long grown used to forced stoicism and fragile smiles. The war had been devastating and its effects had sunk deep into the cracks of everyday life. She felt oddly protective of him, let him still think that magic is a wondrous thing and not the devastating force of nature it could be.

Riddle stood, his movements and gait smooth and she wondered why he was spending so much time pretending to be fine when his magic revealed the truth. Padma blinked. Perhaps he wasn't aware that he was projecting? It had been ages since she had been around students and others not practiced in shielding their magic from others. Still, she could not remember the last time she had heard someone's magic so clearly. Not even with Parvati.

Padma noticed the way he never quite turned his back towards her even within this small room as he looked over the walls, looking for what she wasn't quite sure. The room was empty. If this truly was a jail cell then they would have taken certain precautions to keep them trapped. Nevertheless, she watched him, hoping that she'd be proven wrong. That perhaps there truly was a door to this room and that her paranoia and cynicism were for naught.

The walls were white-washed stone, unremarkable and solid. Her fingers brushed the rough cloth of the cot again. Slowly, Padma unfolded her legs and allowed them to dangle over the edge of the cot. She was shorter now, and she bit her lip hard to stop her panic. _How much had she changed? Why had she changed?_

Quietly, she stood to her feet. Though she was cognizant of the pain, she ignored it. Padma soon stood shoulder to shoulder next to him staring at the far wall from the cots, unsure of what she was seeing. At first glance, the wall seemed solid but in between blinks, for the briefest of moments, she could see how it quaked and buckled.

 _"You see it too,"_ he confirmed.

Padma's throat was dry and she found herself unable to answer verbally. Nonetheless, she found her fingers reaching out as if to touch the stone—just the barest of touches so then she would know what she was looking at—when a pale hand snatched hers back.

Her magic jolted and sparked. He dropped her hand faster than if it were a lump of hot coal but Padma felt the burn of his touch regardless. What was that?

She felt rather than saw her confusion reflected back onto him. Padma turned her attention back to the wall and instead chose to step forward, ignoring the silent protests of her companion's magic. Cautiously as she reached out to touch the stone, she found that her entire hand slipped through seemingly solid stone.

"Just like King's Cross," she murmured.

Padma took another step. "You can't mean to go _forward_ ," Riddle rebuked.

She brushed off his unease as she turned her head to look him directly in the eyes. They were the same height, she noticed. "You mean to go _backwards_?"

"Then you know what's out there?" He seemed calmer at the assumption that she knew what she was doing.

"What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care." She had read those words once and they had stuck with her. In times of weakness, Padma had needed that power. She needed to convince herself that she was invincible.

He scoffed. It was the first real emotion he hadn't lied about since he had woken. "What kind of respectable witch memorizes Muggle plays?"

Padma rolled her eyes. "What kind of wizard eschews knowledge based on its origin?" She had almost forgotten about that if she were honest. Sixty years in the past and it was annoying to see ignorance was still alive and thriving. His jaw twitched and though it was puerile, Padma felt a dark satisfaction at the fact that her words had at least stung.

Without hesitation, Padma continued to walk forward. The only way back to Parvati was forward and Padma would live to see her sister again. She swore it—on her magic and her soul.


	4. He Watches

The sound of Augusta's boots echoed in the hallway as she followed behind Croaker who was levitating a tray of food. Her arms were full of parchment and files and dossiers, all of which were likely more confidential than the last. Anomalies meant secrets which oddly enough also meant mounds and mounds of paperwork. She had always joked that if anyone had a clue about the amount of paperwork an Unspeakable sorted through within an hour, no one would bother to take the job in the first place. That was a lie of course; there was nothing more Urey liked best than the smell of parchment and the satisfaction of a clean report. It was likely one of the few reasons why she worked so well with Croaker in the first place.

She took care to hide how frazzled she felt at the recent turn of events; it was lucky that Croaker was unable to see her face as they turned yet another corner. Croaker was leading her deeper and deeper into the department. The upper levels contained the flashier labs, mostly to delight and entertain the stray Ministry official who deigned to grace them with their presence. Any Unspeakable worth their pumpkin juice would know that inner workings were often hidden behind bland office doors. Shadows within shadows, as her mentor had told her.

Surprisingly it had been Croaker who had brought up the fact that their wards would require nourishment. Augusta preferred to think of them as _wards_ considering Riddle was still a student though Patil's status as an Unspeakable made her own age a bit ambiguous. Urey hoped that Patil was at least of age—the thought of an underage Unspeakable was shocking, to say the least—and she had erroneously thought she had reached a point in her career where she could no longer be surprised.

It had also been her idea, of course, to make sure that Croaker hadn't just dumped the pair into one of the holding cells deep within the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. Their department operated outside of the lines and boundaries set by the DMLE and that meant that Unspeakables governed their own and _punished_ their own when the need arose. Urey had never seen those cells in person but she knew well enough that they existed. Croaker had dropped mentions of them—more like off-hand remarks—and she knew Croaker was not one to exaggerate needlessly. The thought of there being wizards simply languishing miles underground turned Urey's stomach. The thought of stowing their wards there was enough to make the bile boil in her stomach.

Unauthorized time travel was still, in fact, highly illegal and forbidden. A rule that Unspeakable Patil should have been well aware of. But then of course accidents did happen. Or rather, _magic_ happened. Urey's years as an Unspeakable had made her only more aware of how little control they had over Magic itself. If Unspeakable Patil had somehow knowingly arrived sixty years into the past, well, Augusta would eat her hat and Croaker's too.

Augusta momentarily sped up until her stride matched Croaker's, keeping pace with him as she murmured, "Don't you fret now about the stew—haven't met a soul who didn't like it." Her words did the trick in making Croaker roll his eyes and Augusta felt the tension in her own shoulders loosen. She bit back a snort when she caught Croaker's chest puff up with pride.

"You did check on our—guests?" Croaker asked, taking care to drop his voice. Augusta could not see anyone else in the hallways but she couldn't chide Croaker for his caution. In the Department of Mysteries, a secret rarely ever stayed as such.

"O' course I did. They were still sleeping like babes last I checked. All that worrying isn't good for you—any more of that and Healer Mallory might try to dose you with one of her concoctions."

"Healer Mallory believes that all of life's ailments can be solved with an utterly repulsive brew and a night's rest." Croaker sniffed. "Give her forty-eight hours and she'll bring me a draught that can supposedly 'cure' the effects of time travel."

Augusta hid a smile by acting as though she was engrossed in the written content of one of the dossiers she was holding. Healer Mallory had been the one to tell her that Croaker had barely passed his Potions O.W.L., scraping along with an A. It made it rather difficult to take any of his whinging seriously after that.

The pair finally arrived at the makeshift waiting room—though in actuality, it more of a _holding_ room—that they'd converted from one of the broom closets in their little corner of the department. Croaker had chosen the location, stating that nearly everyone ignored it considering it merely served as a storage room for old furniture.

Augusta watched as he stopped in front of the plain brown door, placing his right palm over the painted wood as she withdrew her wand from her sleeve. It would take both of their magic to dissolve the ward on the door. Patil and Riddle's magic was still volatile and the closet had needed to be reinforced to make sure it would hold even against another 'accident'. Croaker kept a close watch on either side of the hallway, likely to make sure no unwanted guests suddenly arrived. When Croaker nodded, Augusta waved her wand counter-clockwise in a slow and steady fashion. The door rattled for a moment before swinging open noisily.

She followed in after Croaker, nearly jumping in surprise when she heard the tray of food crash to the floor. Augusta looked up from the parchment in her hands to see Croaker standing stock still. She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong but stopped when she saw the two empty cots in an even emptier room.

"Well, at least the room's still left standing?" Augusta offered weakly as she watched Croaker's face flit through a multitude of colors. Wandlessly, she performed a Scourgify and a Reparo at the fallen dishes while stowing away a sigh.

She had rather been looking forward to that stew too.

* * *

Tom Riddle was having an extraordinary day. That was to say, he was experiencing a day that was so far outside his ordinary that his composure was slipping at an alarming rate. The last time he had felt so unsettled had been the day that Dumbledore had come to inform him that he was a wizard and that Tom would be going to school with others just like him (of course, Tom would later realize that none of the other children were even like him in the slightest).

Dumbledore was in a class of his very own, that much had been strikingly obvious to Tom once he met the other professors. Even Dumbledore's command of magic was seen as an anomaly—a fact that had simultaneously disappointed and relieved him. Of all the wizards Tom had ever met, only Dumbledore had truly impressed him.

That was, of course, until Padma Patil had fallen into his room in all her bloody glory.

He had been stunned as he watched her boldly march into the unknown without even gifting him a second glance. It had been a rash sort of fearlessness that Tom had erroneously believed only Gryffindors were capable of. He seemed to be doing that rather often lately. His sources were becoming more and more worthless by the moment. Tom had become far too complacent in his latent Legilimency abilities—he'd grown used to the security and sameness of Hogwarts, naively depending on Dumbledore as a benchmark when none of his peers appeared ready to challenge him. The thought that he was not nearly as extraordinary as he had thought was a bitter one and though he had dismissed it quickly enough, it lingered in the hallows of his mind like a bad smell.

It was with this thought in mind that Tom found himself following after her. He stepped forward as though the wall was merely a veil rather than solid stone. Arguably it simply was the most logical course of action, he needed Patil's experience and expertise. He refused to acknowledge that the room also reminded him all too much of Wool's with its bland smooth walls and hard cots. The thought of being left there alone after meeting the only other human Speaker sat heavy like a stone in his gut.

Tom stepped out into cold water—grimacing as it flooded his shoes. He'd had prepared the usual charms on them to make them just a bit less shabby or least not noticeably so considering that clothing was just another symbol of rank in the Slytherin house (nevermind the fact that they all wore the same uniform). While Tom's charms were never less than perfect, he had never foreseen stepping into knee-high ocean water. The noise of birds and waves crashed into his ears as the water chilled him to the bone. The sun hung lazily in the sky seemingly not giving any warmth as it sank further and further into the horizon.

He cast a wary eye at his surroundings. For what seemed to be miles was simply a sandy shoreline framed by a rough cliffside and dark blue water on the other. Tom turned around as if to expect to see the small cramped room right where he had left it but found nothing but the empty expanse of the ocean.

He spotted Unspeakable Patil kneeling in the sand on the shore and relief flooded his veins for the very briefest of moments. The only thing worse being stranded on some strange oceanside would be to have been stranded _alone_. He trudged his way towards the shore, grimacing as his shoes squelched and sank into wet dirt and rocks.

Tom pursed his lips when he noticed how her expensive blue robes were dragging along the wet sand. Tom slipped his hand into his pocket, reaching for the reassuring warmth of his wand and felt ice settle in his veins when he found only lint. With a forced casualness, he checked the other pocket and found nothing.

He grit his teeth so hard they could have cracked. _They had taken his wand._

It was only when he came to stand next to her that he realized that Unspeakable Patil was inspecting a large piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand. Its branches were spindly and its color washed out no doubt due to the salt and water. As he grew closer, Tom found it difficult to understand what could possibly be so interesting about a piece of wood especially when they had stolen his wand. Unspeakables were dangerous far more so than the few bumbling Ministry officials he had met at Sluggy's parties. He had been an utter fool and now they had taken his wand.

"Why are we here?" Tom's voice was tightly controlled. It was a wonder that it didn't manage to cut the wood in front of them considering how sharp it was.

Patil looked up and nothing in her features seemed surprised by his presence. "Do you know this place?" She asked quietly.

Tom said nothing as he watched the waves, trying to keep his temper and fear at bay. He had forgotten what it was like to not have his wand at his fingertips. Ever since that fateful day at Ollivander's, Tom took pains to ensure he was never without it. Despite his turmoil, he considered her question. The shoreline did look familiar as though he was looking at a moving photograph rather than a memory. The truth was that he did know this place.

Years ago an anonymous benefactor had donated money to Wool's. Unfortunately, this benefactor was exceedingly impractical in a way that those accustomed to wealth often were since the donor had stipulated that this money was only to be used so that the poor orphans might see the seaside. So instead of new clothing or books or blankets or even food for that matter, they piled them into a train carriage and sent them on a day trip to see a vast ocean before returning to their drab little orphanage. How cruel it had been, Tom belatedly reflected, how cruel to show them how small they truly were in this world by showing them the vast relentlessness of the ocean.

He had very nearly forgotten. Much of his memories associated with Wool's were far too easily pushed aside but now it rushed back all at once. His spine was rigid and his suspicion festered. _Why would they have been sent here?_

Patil had apparently taken his silence as an affirmation since she then asked, "Do you know if there is a town nearby? I don't fancy trying to travel in darkness." Patil was right, the sun was sinking fast and their prospects were dwindling by the moment.

"There is one." Describing it as a town was a bit of stretch but Tom vaguely remembered a small seaside village some walk away—it had been where the train had stopped—and he turned away from the shore to look for a path. There had been a rough cluster of cottages and a pub that served as a barber and pie-shop in one. "Would it not be best for us to remain here? They're likely searching for us." The thought of simply wandering around without his wand was utterly unpalatable.

"Perhaps." Patil rose to her feet and exhaled heavily. "But I'd rather take our luck with the Muggles for now rather than to be sent through another mirror."

"Muggles?" Tom echoed, unable to take the sneer out of his voice completely. "You think the Muggles would provide safety? The war may have ended in your time but it's long from over in this one." His brain chewed over what she had said, however. It implied that someone had knowingly led them here. Someone had enchanted the wall to let them escape though he couldn't fathom why they'd been sent to _this_ shore.

"I know that," she replied sharply before biting her lip. He watched as she fidgeted with her too-long sleeves. She was silently debating something but the argument ended rather quickly when she finally replied, "Something happened in that room—in your room—before the Unspeakables came. Something changed me."

Tom focused on her eyes as the memory of touching her necklace flashed through his mind. He cursed himself three more times, using the language he'd learned on the streets when he had nothing better to do than to eavesdrop and steal. "All the more reason to wait for their return. If there's something wrong with you, the Unspeakables will know how to fix it."

Doubt drew her mouth into a straight line and Tom felt his mind blaze. What could have happened that even someone like Unspeakable Patil believed it to be immutable? His hand twitched as though still feeling the ghost of when his own magic had sparked and crackled. It hadn't done something like that in ages, not since he had been experimenting with his magic years before he had known what it was.

Despite his words, something like ice settled deep in his belly as he remembered the way their magic had sparked. Something had changed—had changed both of them. And there was a great possibility that someone had purposely led them away from the Unspeakables. If that was the case, then they certainly couldn't simply wait there. What if the Unspeakables weren't even aware of their disappearance? All it would have taken was a well-placed _Obliviate_ —a charm that Tom had employed time and time again.

Patil acknowledged his words with a nod but did nothing further except to lightly shake the sand off her robes. She began to walk away, her boots sinking into the sand. It would have been comical if Tom wasn't too busy scowling about the wet sand in his own shoes.

"You can't mean to walk there," Tom called out after her.

Patil stopped, turning her head just slightly to look at him. "Do you have your wand then?" She asked, causing Tom to internally bristle with irritation. He did not visibly react to her question but his silence was deafening even with the waves breaking in the background.

When Patil turned her back, Tom realized that he was waiting for an invitation that would never come. He watched her blue robes whip around in the wind for a few beats, mood and magic curdling. Staying was likely the best course of action since Tom highly doubted the Unspeakables would allow a rogue Time Traveller to roam loose in the countryside but without his wand what options did he truly have? The wind was growing colder against his back and the thought of another party—an unknown group with vested interest in keeping them away from the Unspeakables—made it seem foolhardy to separate.

And so Tom Riddle followed reluctantly while taking care not to drag his feet and soil his shoes any further.

"Does this town have a pub?" Patil asked as they got further away from the shoreline.

Tom nodded jerkily, glad that their similar strides meant that he didn't have to end up waiting for her. His mind was too busy plotting and calculating and cursing whatever moronic piece of dung thought it was a good idea to steal his wand. He appeased himself by promising vengeance.

"Good. I'll need a pint. . .or three," she muttered under her breath.

With the day Tom had, he had no choice but to agree. His stomach was starting to quietly make its desire for food known but it was not an unfamiliar feeling. Wool's had forcibly taught him many things and learning how to stave off his hunger had been a lesson he'd learned rather quickly.

The sun was setting far faster than expected—sunlight fading into dusk and then dusk melting into darkness. The thought of trudging along in wet shoes and trousers for nearly hour (for that had been how long it had taken the group from Wool's to reach the beach) was nearly unbearable and became even more so when Tom spotted a cottage along the wayside. Vaguely, he remembered it but it had been empty to his recollection. Or at the very least unoccupied.

"We'll freeze in these wet clothes before reaching the town and without sufficient light, we'll likely walk in circles," Tom decided. The moon was waning—a thin crescent in the sky backlit by pinpricks of lights. "Head towards that cottage over there."

Patil didn't argue; she had been more or less silent during their trek and Tom didn't know what to make of it. He had been glad that she wasn't rather chatty considering he had neither the mood nor the patience to pretend at the moment but he felt uneasy. Patil was a Speaker, true, and while that made her interesting that did not make her trustworthy. While he doubted that Patil had the same command of wandless magic that he had (rudimentary but still serviceable considering the years he'd spent before even learning about Hogwarts), he could not quite dismiss the way she had simply animated a parchment bird with little more than blood and ink. Patil was dangerous because she was unknown.

The cottage was smaller and uglier than Tom remembered. While it seemed as though someone had attempted to paint it decades ago, whatever effort had succumbed to the elements. The windows were cracked and the structure itself seemed to barely hold itself upright. It was, however, thankfully empty. Long ago abandoned by its owners and left to fend for itself against the relentlessness of the seaside. The plain wooden door was locked as Tom discovered. Inhaling deeply as he placed his palm on the door handle, he focused his magic and tried to recall what it had felt like to use it before his receiving his wand.

With a light flick of his wrist, the door creaked open. There was no place in Wool's that could ever keep him out—the cottage door was no exception. He'd been sneaking food from the padlocked pantry for ages before Dumbledore had ever shown up in his wretched suit talking about his magical school. Mrs. Cole had remained convinced that they had rats which served as the reason why she maintained a trio of cats which were likely more well-fed than the children.

Tom half-expected Patil to reprimand him or at least admonish him—while wandless magic certainly wasn't illegal, breaking into a Muggle dwelling clearly was. Much to his silent surprise, she held her tongue. Fatigue was the overwhelming prominent characteristic of her face but any judgment she had was likely buried.

The dust in the air tickled Tom's nose but he managed to withhold his sneeze. Patil had no such luck, sneezing twice in a row in rapid succession. The contents of the cottage were sparse—an old pot-bellied stove shoved into a corner, a mismatched pair of chairs, a broken table and a large moldy mess of fabric that Tom quickly surmised to be the bed.

The entire cottage rattled when the wind blew particularly fiercely and Tom watched as Patil began to methodically search through the dresser drawers closest to the bed. Tom chose to snoop around the stove; surprisingly, he found a stack of peat and an old brick of tea. Or least he believed it to be tea, judging by the paper it was wrapped in and the way shavings had been carved off the top. Another drawer revealed nothing but crumpled newspapers but as Tom shifted the papers, he found a small metal knife no longer than the length of his hand. It was slightly rusted around the point but otherwise in decent condition.

"Find anything?" Pati asked from the other side of the room. "All that's here is a bent kettle, a few teacups and a nest of mice living in a chamberpot."

Tom stealthily pocketed the knife. The cold metal was a poor replacement for his wand but the weight in his pocket made him feel less vulnerable. "Just a stack of peat and a brick of tea looks like."

"Rather lucky then," Patil noted. "At least we won't freeze tonight."

"Do you plan on starting a fire by writing _Eldr_ a hundred times on the stove?" Tom asked sourly—the cold and the aches of hunger made his public mask rather frail. He knew that Rune only because Nott had burned it into a table at the library much to Madam Mulligan's horror. Patil had just seen him use wandless magic to break into a cottage; he doubted that playing the priggish Head-Boy-to-be would still be advantageous so he let the full force of his sarcasm fly.

She snorted in amusement. "I forgot that Ancient Runes at Hogwarts was so focused on memorization besides we don't really need a Rune at all considering how our magic sparked when you touched my hand."

Tom's throat tightened. He hadn't known what had possessed him to touch her. Tom did not seek touch—though he had used it in small doses to manipulate and to press his authority never to protect an utter stranger.

"No need," Tom replied; his neck was stiff from tension. He was more than capable than creating a few sparks from his own magic, _thank you very much_. Patil seemed to accept this but made no further inquiry into how Tom planned on creating a fire so he continued, "I thought I saw a hand pump outside."

"Hand pump?" Patil asked.

"Can't make tea without water." He wasn't sure if conjuring water wandlessly was within his capabilities much to Tom's displeasure. His practice at wandless magic had fallen to the wayside since starting at Hogwarts.

"Right," Patil agreed. Tom watched her as she left the cottage with a determined gait. If Patil was like any other Pureblood Tom had met, she'd likely be gone for at least an hour or more trying to understand how to use a Muggle contraption.

He had initially been shocked to learn that running water was a rather new invention in the Wizard World considering how many of his peers still casually mentioned chamber-pots and the like. It was only after years of observation that Tom realized how utterly slow the Wizarding World was at innovating itself—if the Muggle world dragged its feet then the Wizarding World _crawled_. The Wizards liked to believe that their world was as close to perfect and whole as possible but Tom's position as an outsider made the cracks all too obvious. Grindelwald had seen them as well seeing as the man had been able to manipulate scores of Wizards to his side.

Despite the way the cottage shook as the wind rattled the walls, Tom found it rather peaceful. His task of creating a fire in the stove was easy though monotonous. He had learned how to make sparks over a decade ago—one time even successfully lighting one of the caretaker's cardigans on fire (the woman had been an utter shrew and Tom didn't like the way she eyed the children, least of all himself)—and his magic even as changed as it was still obeyed him faithfully. He felt safer here considering the idyllic surroundings meant the Muggles wouldn't dare waste precious fuel and bombs on an empty coastal countryside. Well, he felt as safe as he could without his wand.

The pot-bellied stove cast the single room in a warm glow and Tom sat back in one of the wooden chairs to admire his work and rest his cold, tired feet. Patil came back sooner than expected, shivering slightly from the cold and made a ruckus trying to shut the door. She placed the kettle (now full with water although some of it had sloshed onto the floor) on the stovetop before wearily settling down in the other empty chair—it creaked as she sat seeing as Tom had taken the less shabby one for himself.

"How do you know this place?" She asked, cracking the established silence between them.

"They brought us here once." Nonchalant was the best route—the less information about the magic he'd done here the better. "How did you become an Unspeakable?" Best to keep the subject moving along.

"Passed the test. Though there were those who said they were a bit more lenient considering how desperate they were for applicants—"

"Why were they desperate for applicants?" Tom tried to keep his tone light and casual, disguising the hunger behind his words.

"Because of the—" Patil immediately stopped herself, clenching her jaw. "It's dangerous to talk about that."

Tom, however, was not discouraged. Her words have revealed plenty and now it was more just a game of patience so he played along. "What's it like to time travel?"

"Honestly? It's disorienting as all hell. Everything seems so familiar but there's—there's an overwhelming otherness to even most ordinary things. I'm constantly being reminded that I'm not supposed to be here." Patil's words were chosen carefully; Tom imagined her mentally cataloging them as a future essay she'd submit to an academic journal.

"Were you sent here?" Tom wondered aloud. "You didn't seem at all surprised to learn that you were in the past." Patil had been shocked, sure, but not dumbfounded.

"No, the Runes were. . ." Patil paused for a moment either to gather her thoughts or as though she was remembering something. "A part of me didn't want to believe it but. . ." For a moment her voice wavered and Tom was horrified that she was actually going to cry but the moment seemed to pass quickly.

The kettle whistled and Tom busied himself with the tea. Patil was staring off into one of the walls, seemingly lost in her thoughts and once again Tom wished his Legilimency skills were more developed. He considered taking the chance anyway but Patil was too much of an unknown factor. Unspeakables were expected to protect secrets so it was reasonable to assume that they had some understanding of Occlumency. Perhaps while she was asleep and her guard was lowered, he would take the risk.

Patil had been thoughtful enough to rinse out the teacups which were now clean albeit chipped. The act of making the tea was rather soothing and Patil was momentarily shaken out of her reverie as Tom placed the cup before her. He took pains to guarantee that their hands would not accidentally touch. A sip of the tea revealed it was surprisingly strong despite the few shavings he'd added but its bitter taste was not nearly as smooth as he was accustomed to. It was far better than an empty stomach, however, and he felt considerably warmer.

"Do you have plans after Hogwarts?" Patil asked.

Oh, Tom had so many plans but ultimately he was rather reluctant to leave Hogwarts. So Tom chose to deflect and fished for information. "Are you going to tell me my fortune then? Advise me of something to prevent a descendant of mine from causing you trouble?" Humor, Tom had found, relaxed people more effectively than false smiles. Not that very many realized how false his smiles were but that was beside the point.

Patil gave him a weak smile. "Nothing so nefarious. Though it would be a mighty coincidence if I did know you, wouldn't it?"

 _Coincidence?_ Tom smirked. Rather he was counting on it—anonymity had never been something he was interested in. Tom wanted all the credit for his triumphs. And Tom was definitely curious—what better person to actually tell him his fortune than a Time Traveler?

Tom leaned back in his chair as he listened to the wild whistle of the wind; his mouth was still bitter from the tea. Nothing ventured, nothing gained—even the smallest Slytherin knew that lesson.

"Tom," he stated as the sound of the wind seemed to crescendo outside. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

For an extended moment of time, neither spoke. Patil's face was placid like the smooth surface of an undisturbed puddle—Tom wanted to know how far that tranquility ran.

"Well?" He asked; impatience made him clutch the teacup harder than he should. Tom would never admit it but her silence was unnerving him.

Patil took a long sip of tea. "That name is not familiar to me."

The tea calcified in his stomach, making it feel as though he had forcibly swallowed a large stone. All this time he naturally assumed that he would triumph—that the world would know his name—but hearing her casual admission and so _dismissively_ broke something inside of him.

* * *

 **I have rarely ever seen Tom Riddle at a disadvantage in fanfiction. He nearly always possesses the upper-hand and is always ridiculously great at magic. I thought it would be more interesting to see a Tom Riddle who is no longer as confident that his plan to take over the Wizarding World will work. A Tom who will second-guess and perhaps be a bit more shrewd and practical than the first one.**

 **I hope to update more often this year** — **hopefully once a month if the story permits. I've written a lot of this story, actually, but it's not in chronological order much to my infinite disappointment.**

 **"What though care killed a cat, thou has mettle enough in thee to kill care." - Willy Shakes, _Much Ado Abou Nothing_ (A precursor of the common idiom "Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back".)**


	5. They Search

The tea was horrible. Padma knew that for a fact the moment the swill touched her tongue. Nevertheless, like a good Englishwoman (to say nothing of her Indian heritage) she continued to sip it. The drink was warm and that was all that really mattered in this dreary little seaside cottage.

 _Riddle_.

A rather strange name, Padma had first decided. She had analyzed his features—prominent cheekbones, the pronounced cupid's bow, the way his hair slightly curled towards the ends, and just the slightest amblyopia in the right eye which somehow made his gaze seem even more piercing—and felt like she was staring down a cliff. Padma was missing something very obvious and once she discovered it, she had no doubt she'd be berating herself for weeks.

Riddle had Old English origins; a descendant of _hrædels, redelse_ or _rædelse_ (for humans always rather did love their variety as Padma had noticed) and had lost meanings over time but one common factor had stayed the same—its meaning as a problem to be solved. And Tom Riddle was one such problem. Padma did not believe in coincidences and her belief had only been strengthened during her later schooling and subsequent posting as a Runemaster for the Unspeakables.

Riddle was not a Wizarding name, or at least not one she recognized. Not that Padma gave that any further thought. Pansy Parkinson had absolutely savored rubbing the fact that the Patils were a new-name, insignificant transplant from some backwater in India. She'd recited the list of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight as any dutiful pureblood daughter of bigoted parents should during their first playdate as their fathers discussed a possible business agreement. Nevermind that Padma's ancestral tree ran longer than the lies Parkinson could spin—she'd once told Parvati that she was engaged to a Swiss prince—and Padma had not been sad to learn that the partnership had crashed and burned not just a few months later.

"Just because I don't know your name doesn't really mean very much," Padma quickly added, realizing that her earlier statement had been crushingly tactless especially to a fifth-year who hadn't taken his O.W.L.s yet. Parvati had grown out of it but Padma was still very much prone to committing the occasional social faux-pas. Writing and studying Runes was _so_ much easier than socializing. "You could have left Britain for all I know or even have become an Unspeakable."

Though it was far more likely he'd lived a life of common anonymity as most wizards did.

Riddle made a face and Padma guessed that it was likely not because of the tea. Her words had likely been too heavy-handed to be of any comfort but she continued because the way his magic had reacted was enough to make her visibly wince. "The founder of Ilvermorny had been a descendant of Slytherin and a Parselmouth to boot. Maybe you went across the pond to find your kin there?"

"If I was an Unspeakable wouldn't you have recognized me?" Riddle said nothing more on Ilvermorny but his eyes had glimmered in the low light.

Padma snorted. "Not if we weren't in the same department. The only reason I recognized Croaker is because he proctored one of my exams—I still remember how he bellowed at one of the applicants for not following directions." Most Unspeakables directly reported to their supervisors or department head but the hierarchy above them was rather murky. Apparently, it was an added form of security though Padma knew it was rather faulty considering how easily Death Eaters were able to slip through the cracks. Allegedly there had a been an audit done of all current Unspeakables and their loyalties—oaths were updated and written as far more binding—but it had been less than a decade. Time would tell whether it worked.

She had very nearly wanted to sag back into the rickety chair in relief when Riddle's mood had lightened. Padma had forgotten how mercurial teenagers were—her only experience with children began and ended with doting on the toddlers of her various friends and acquaintances. And cousins, she supposed but her cousins were all older than her anyway and beginning to start families of their own.

 _Slytherin then_ , she idly noted. Only someone whose ego and ambition was so limitless that they expected a Time Traveler to know who they were. Or she could be utterly wrong, though she thought she'd have _at least_ taken notice of a Parselmouth who had been sorted into Hufflepuff. Though it was far more likely that he had hidden the ability from the public, however, considering how it was perceived rather unfavorably in Britain.

Padma thanked the gods that she hadn't been so thoughtless as to add that it was entirely possible for him to have died before her time. The wars—both Muggle and Wizard—had been rather devastating. Padma just hoped that if Riddle was, in fact, due for an untimely end, it wasn't a direct consequence of one of her actions. Hopefully, Riddle would continue his life in peace after this brief interlude and would be none the worse for it. Padma certainly couldn't fathom the Unspeakables punishing a civilian especially a _minor_ —even if the boy had broken into a Muggle cottage using wandless magic.

"Who taught you to open doors like that?" Padma asked while knowing full well that it was likely self-taught. Unspeakable Urey's words of Tom's 'ward' status had cemented that conclusion for her since wizards wouldn't open an orphanage until 1999 when there had been too many children without homes. He certainly didn't learn magic from the _Muggles._

Riddle shrugged; his face was the picture of innocence. "I spent years of my life not knowing what I was, as far as I knew it was just a parlor trick until my Hogwarts letter."

"That must have taken extraordinary control." Padma was suitably impressed, it was nearly unheard of for children to be able to control their accidental magic or at least it was in Britain (she'd learned that Nigerian wizards didn't bother with wands at all—but that was beside the point).

Riddle gave her a wan smile, frail as it was artificial. It almost made her want to pull at his lips with her fingers to see if that mask was anything like the plastic ones she'd seen at a fancy dress party once. It was a ridiculous thought and yet her fingers twitched half-tempted. "You seem to be taking your sudden departure from your own time rather well." Padma wouldn't venture so far as to say his words were a compliment since there was an underlying current of. . . _something_ that lurked under them. She wasn't the best conversationalist but understanding what wasn't said aloud was a skill she'd been forced to learn as she walked that thin political tightrope of being a foreign Pureblood in a land on the verge of a civil war, well, until Parvati dragged her into Dumbledore's Army. Padma liked to think that she would have joined them eventually but it had been Parvati who had really pushed, veiling her motivations as she cajoled Padma into joining the 'study group'. _Gods,_ Padma swallowed back the sudden urge to cry, _gods she missed her sister._

Rain pelted the windows and she watched the water drip from the roof in the far corner of the room. The wind was even ghastlier than before and Padma felt wide awake at the sound. The tea had at least helped with her earlier fatigue even if it tasted as though something had died in her mouth. _Oh, what she wouldn't give for a decent mouth-cleaning charm right about now!_ Runes could only do so much, sadly. She likely could have devised something but it would have been far more trouble than it was worth.

"It's an adjustment, certainly, but I'll be back in my own time soon enough and out of your hair for good." She couldn't bring herself to swallow any more of that damned tea and decided to set it aside.

Truthfully her paranoia made her far jumpier than a spooked Kneazle. Whoever had sent them here had purposefully wanted to isolate them from the Unspeakables though she couldn't fathom why they'd bring Tom along too. Perhaps it had been a mistake? It was unlikely but she couldn't quite strike the possibility from her mind. But how had they known Padma was even here in the first place? Either they had a source within the Department of Mysteries—which was possible considering how the Death Eaters had infiltrated its ranks during the last war—or they had known about her arrival before it had even happened.

Padma couldn't quite rule out that the D.o.M. was at least partially involved—the mirror inside the makeshift jail cell had stunk of an inside job. The hole in her memory had everything seem so much more suspicious especially since she didn't have the slightest clue as to what had caused it.

"Why did you land in my room in the first place?" Tom asked. "I live miles away from Diagon Alley in a section of London where there are no Magical residents."

"Well it certainly wasn't by _choice_ ," Padma replied rather tartly. "We were told the artifact hadn't been used in centuries not that I would _ever_ trust the word of some Ministry bureaucrat who's never read a single Rune in their lives. Magic is chaotic and seemingly illogical but for whatever reason, it decided that the best location for my arrival was in your bed sixty years in the past. It could have just as easily dumped me at the bottom of the ocean." Though her words were spoken in the same tone, Padma had difficulty suppressing a shiver at the thought—she could have very easily just been killed by Magic's whim.

"How fortunate," Tom noted; though his Magic told it was just the opposite.

 _How embarrassing,_ Padma thought. Either he was the worst liar in the world or he had no idea that his Magic was actively broadcasting his thoughts. For a moment she contemplated informing him but decided against it. Practicality begged her to keep a wary eye on everyone even if Riddle was a just a fifth-year student without a wand. Padma would readily admit that after the war it had been difficult to openly trust especially not when her instincts had screamed otherwise.

"I don't suppose you'd know when this war will be over? Granted if the History of Magic class is anything like it is now. . ."

"It hasn't changed a bit from what I understand. Though having a ghost as a professor does breed consistency if not monotony." Padma doubted it would ever change considering that Professor Binns had been teaching for decades and would continue to do so.

"You're taught history by a ghost?" Riddle gave her a look that told her that he was unsure if she was joking but had decided to humor her anyway. "He's likely a better lecturer than our own professor."

"He's been a ghost for as long as anyone can remember. Rumor has it that he died in the staff room one morning and just drifted into the class as a ghost. Gave everyone quite a fright as I'm told." She supposed even as time passed some things never changed—History of Magic would always be boring in any decade. The Padma had thought it was rather pitiful, however, considering that Binns had no idea that he had died. Poor fellow would likely continue teaching History of Magic until the end times. Though she supposed at a certain point it would become necessary to bring in someone else—Binns wasn't even aware he was a ghost and she doubted that he had taken note of anything that had happened during the last war.

"What year is now, 1942?" Padma asked rhetorically since the year had been practically burned into her mind as it had left Croaker's lips. She gave Riddle a thoughtful look. "It won't be too long for the Wizarding side of things maybe two years or was it three?" History of Magic had never been her greatest subject especially since she was always reading books instead of listening to Binns.

Just a few more years until the Wizarding World would stick their heads back into the sand all the while ignoring the reasons _why_ Grindelwald had gotten so popular in the first place and continue to claim they've progressed.

"How can you not be sure?" His question practically glittered with seeded malice.

Padma frowned at his disdain. "I'm sorry if I was a little busy fighting a war instead of listening to another one of Binns' monologues!" She bit her lip harsh enough to draw blood, realizing she'd let far more slip than she wanted.

Riddle smirked in triumph—his gaze dark and calculating. Definitely a snake, she concluded in her mind. Padma blamed it on the fatigue since that seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. Idly, she wondered if all teens were this annoying. Thank the _gods_ she never decided to pursue a professorship.

"Did you win?" The question was so absurd it that Padma's eyebrows rose in disbelief. Typical people didn't ask if you won the war—they'd offer condolences and platitudes of a similar nature.

"That's what you're wondering about? I just told you that the Wizarding World will be engulfed in war _again_ before the century even ends and you want to know if we _won?_ "

"History is written by the victors," Tom replied casually.

"What a naive thing to say," Padma finally murmured, the words strained and forced. Rationally, she tried to remember that Tom was so far detached from the conflict that he didn't know how she had watched students tortured in the halls of Hogwarts because of who their parents were. Didn't know how the limbs kept twitching even after the Cruciatus spell was lifted. Her magic boiled and it felt as though her veins were on fire.

"Did you lose then?" He asked and she wanted to pluck his eyes out of his head. The walls of the cottage shook.

Forcibly she inhaled because losing control of her magic would have been inexcusable especially after she finally realized he was provoking her intentionally. _What sort of game was this little worm playing?_ Her temper was much shorter than she remembered, perhaps not only had her body had regressed in age but her mind as well? Troubling, astoundingly troubling. Coming into majority had been strenuous enough the first time, Padma had doubts she'd be able to fully survive a second go around.

The air was still as she exhaled through her nose. What side of history did this. . .boy join? Padma couldn't deny her own biases against Slytherin house—she'd seen what her year-mates had done and what some of them had been coerced to do. Eventually, it came to a point where it was difficult to tell the difference. They'd all been children but this Tom Riddle would have been a man grown by the time You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters began to plague the country. _Voldemort,_ she mentally corrected herself. How silly to be still afraid of a name that likely didn't even exist yet.

They'd won but it felt more like a pyrrhic victory than any true triumph. He had been wiped off the face of the Earth thanks to Harry but the wounds ran deep and without due diligence, they would eventually become septic. "We won," the words tasted bitter on her tongue as they left her mouth, "but no triumph is total."

Tom merely hummed in response, it was difficult to tell what he was thinking when his magic wasn't actively projecting his thoughts. He had no further words for her thankfully since Padma was unsure how much longer she could hold herself back if he decided to press against the wounds in her heart.

* * *

"I think it's time we told someone about this Croaker," Augusta tiredly suggested, eyes strained from scanning parchment for even the slightest deviation from the norm. They'd hoped that another large magical anomaly would clue them into where Patil and Riddle had managed to run off to. The room was supposed to be completely secure using two different warding schemes keyed into only their magic. The most disturbing detail had been that neither she nor Croaker could conclusively rule out whether it had been an Unspeakable or a third party that had absconded with their wards. The mere concept of there being a mole in the department scared her witless.

"Just keep searching Urey," Croaker intoned, his eyes squinting behind a pair of round gold-wire spectacles. "Don't let our groveling to Orla go to waste."

Augusta rubbed her eyes, unable to argue. Orla had practically lorded the opportunity over their heads, and she'd been conniving enough to extract a few favors in the process. Merlin, she was not looking forward to when Orla would decide to cash those in. Then again, Orla seemed to be the type to sit and wait. Favoring to horde and compile her favors until the odds were utterly stacked in her favor.

She stood up from her desk, choosing to look away from what appeared to be an endless scroll of parchment. They'd been searching for hours now with nearly nothing to show for it. "Croaker," Augusta began irritably. "We've checked the records for nearly three hours now—we're approaching this problem entirely wrong. There must be a better source of data to track their whereabouts than this."

Croaker sighed, removing his spectacles before rubbing his face with his hands. Augusta watched as he carefully folded them before stowing the glasses away in one of his hidden pockets. She pressed on, sensing that Croaker was finally relenting to at least glimpse at reason. "We have to tell someone _Saul_. For all we know Patil is just wandering about un-birthing dozens of people."

"If she'd done that we would have at least noticed," Croaker countered. "Un-birthing causes tremendous fluctuations in the time stream, but so far all of our records are merely showing that the length of today was extended by a few milliseconds—absolutely nothing like the data collected during Mintumble's absence."

"Well Mintumble did journey further back than Patil, maybe that's why we're only seeing a small degree of change?" Even to Augusta, her argument sounded weak.

Croaker shook his head. "The lack of variation is odd; it almost seems _purposeful._ As though her arrival was calculated and the variables were adjusted accordingly."

"Do you think it's the You-Know-What?" August asked, voice dropping just enough. She was far more mindful that their findings hadn't been as secure as she'd once thought. They hadn't the slightest clue how the Soul bond was affecting anything.

"The what?" Croaker's face contorted in confusion before smoothing over as he rolled his eyes. "Our equipment isn't designed to pick up magical anomalies that do not directly affect time. You're right, we need to broaden our search." Croaker then grimaced. "We'll have to visit Lovegood."

Augusta's eyes nearly popped out of her skull in surprise. Croaker going to Lovegood for help—willingly? She'd have thought that goblins would first give their gold away for free.

"Hopefully they haven't left the office yet," Augusta merely said as she quickly recomposed herself. She sprang out of her seat, gathering her things. It was later in the day and she expected that most of the Ministry had left the building by now though Unspeakables were notorious for keeping odd hours. There weren't any set rules on when to 'clock in' so to speak. It was completely voluntary for Unspeakables to even do their work in the building which made scheduling intra-departmental meetings an utter nightmare.

"You did notify Birch earlier?" Croaker asked as they waited for the lift.

"Of course," Augusta reassured him. "She also told me that Lovegood's been distracted all day—do you think he already knows?"

"Lovegood is not a Seer," Croaker sneered. "No matter how much he desperately wishes to be." They stepped inside the thankfully empty carriage and Croaker was silent for a few moments as they began their descent before stating, "If he already knows then he'll have greater incentive to help retrieve our stolen subjects."

"Croaker!" Augusta half-shouted half-whispered. "They're more than just—"

"Don't be so self-righteous Urey. I know you were practically salivating at the chance of running tests on their bond—even if they have nothing to do with time magic, Soul bonds are rather extraordinary in their own right."

It was Augusta's turn to huff. "From an academic standpoint, of course. There's very little recorded data on Soul bonds but now's not the time! Who knows what happened to those poor dears especially when the bond is still in its infancy?" They were still children after all—or at least Riddle was. Augusta still felt a few pangs of guilt for taking his wand away even if it had been protocol. Then again, what could a fifth-year student do against a wizard (or witch) who could infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and plant a portal under their noses?

"Poor dears?" Croaker echoed. "If those two aren't careful we could be looking at a catastrophe of massive proportions."

"Think happy thoughts," Augusta chided as they waited for the lift doors to open. The ride had been thankfully short which seemed like a miracle after the last group of Spellcrafters had changed it to incorporate the occasionally spiral—she and Croaker had only had to grab the railings a few times.

Lovegood's office was sequestered on what many Unspeakables snidely called the 'forgotten floor'. Namely, where unpopular projects were sentenced a slow and painful demise. Lovegood's field of study was Soul magic which was as vague as it sounded. He was considered a hack by most of their colleagues considering nearly everyone had different ideas on what a soul was—though no one ever disputed that souls were real. Newly recruited Unspeakables didn't usually get to choose which departments or projects they were assigned to—Augusta certainly didn't envy anyone unfortunate enough to be assigned to this dreary, gray floor. She'd been lucky to be assigned to the Temporary Oddities office fresh from passing her exams. Augusta didn't doubt that anyone assigned to the 'forgotten floor' would be quick to submit their paperwork for an immediate transfer.

Up until about five years ago, Lovegood had worked alone—or rather had a blur of assistants each more unremarkable than the last. That was until Birch had come along. Supposedly, as rumors went, Birch had _chosen_ the posting. Why the woman would want to work on this floor was beyond Augusta's understanding but she forced herself to keep an open mind.

They passed several nondescript doors—all exactly identically bland in color. It was as though the floor had been purposely painted a bland tan color that made your eyes gloss over the details. Augusta certainly had no desire to linger in the empty hallway. Perhaps a very subtle Notice-Me-Not enchantment? Or rather Care-Me-Not, Augusta amusedly thought. She still noticed the doors but had no desire or curiosity to explore them further.

The duo reached the end of the hallway where they saw a door painted in a lovely lavender blush. There was a flower box containing daisies in an eye-catching violet underneath a tarnished door plaque which read 'Soul and Other'.

"Soul and other?" Augusta read aloud in confusion.

"It's a catch-all that Lovegood abuses to get assigned to cases which are beyond his scope," Croaker muttered before knocking brusquely.

The door swung open on its own accord, revealing an office that appeared as though it was split completely down the middle. On one side was an ordinary office setup, a sensible wooden desk, and chair. The other side was extravagantly painted—violets, blues, golds, burgundies—furnished with a pair of twin cream-colored settees. It made Augusta wonder how large Lovegood's yearly office budget was to splurge on interior decorating. It was the far back wall, however, that immediately grabbed her attention. A large, convoluted Arithmanic calculation was written all over the wallpaper—the two occupants had their backs turned to the door as they studied the equation. There was an ink drawing done in green in the far corner but the smaller figure's blue robes partially concealed it.

Croaker grumbled when neither occupant acknowledged their presence so Augusta decided to take the lead as she usually did. "Hello there," she called out trying her best to be personable as they stood in the doorway not quite entering.

"Oh hello! How lovely we very rarely get guests here—terrible location I'm afraid." Lovegood was a tall, slight man so slight that Augusta was certain a stiff wind would topple him over. His robes were interesting, shifting in the light from a light flushed pink to a darker silver. Augusta especially liked the small flowers embroidered along the hem—they reminded her of her great aunt's garden.

Birch, on the other hand, had a much stockier stature. Her robes were utilitarian both in cut and design, the dark blue went rather nicely with her red hair which was cropped close to her skull.

Lovegood waved his hand inviting them inside the office though her eyes didn't miss how the equation faded into the wall as Birch tapped it rhythmically. Lovegood's long beard swayed as he flourished his wand, causing a tea service to spring into existence in between the two settees. "And you've arrived just in time for tea! Birch simply outdid herself this time. You must try her scones—oh, and do pair it with the raspberry currant, it's simply divine."

Croaker sat stiffly on the settee and Augusta hid her amusement as he jostled slightly when the settee extended its length. She was grateful since tea was far better than no meal at all.

The raspberry currant was indeed divine but Augusta was too occupied as she wondered why Lovegood was so ostracized by his peers. The chap was certainly chatty but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing—especially since neither Croaker nor Birch had said a single word since they'd sat down.

Lovegood was in the middle of pushing another poppy seed muffin onto Augusta's plate as he regaled them of some shenanigans he'd experienced in Florence one fine summer in 1883 when Croaker finally abandoned his self-imposed silence. "Where are they?"

He asked so abruptly that Augusta nearly dropped her teacup in surprise.

"I'm afraid that I hadn't had the time to make any of those lemon cakes you're so fond of Saul, but perhaps next week—"

Croaker loudly exhaled through his nose. Augusta imagined that if he were a dragon there would be great plumes of smoke exiting each nostril and perhaps a few stray sparks as well. "You know that's not why we're here Phileas."

Lovegood's eyebrows rose. "Really? I remember how many you ate during the last council meeting—"

The existence of a council was certainly news to Augusta. She felt rather miffed that Croaker hadn't even mentioned it and made a note to ask about it later.

"Where is Unspeakable Patil?" Croaker ground out—like gnashing his teeth for good measure.

Lovegood's silvery-blue eyes practically glittered. Augusta felt a little taken aback by the sudden shift in the air.

Birch frowned; it was her first show of emotion during the entire meeting. "You never mentioned one of them was an Unspeakable."

"It didn't seem relevant at the time though we were rather preoccupied," Augusta admitted. The note she'd written was rather hastily scrawled and she felt embarrassed knowing that Birch's first impression of her was sloppy penmanship.

"Of course it's relevant," Lovegood replied, continuing to ignore Croaker's question altogether. "The calculations have to be very precise you see otherwise it throws everything into quite a mess."

Augusta suddenly thought of that hurried yet neat scrawl she'd glimpsed before Birch had removed it from the wall. The tea and scones felt like cement in her gut.

"Perhaps you were a bit too occupied searching to take notice but there is something very interesting happening to the fabric of Magic right now." Lovegood's eyes were still trained on Croaker, much like a teacher waiting on an answer from a prized pupil.

 _Fabric?_ Augusta's mind echoed. "We observed a very large disturbance—"

"But nothing since then?" Birch interjected mildly, lightly flicking her wand to add more sugar to her tea. She seemed rather bored with the conversation.

"No," Augusta reluctantly replied. "Searching the records provided by Orla didn't help much either. That's why we came to see if you had noticed anything unusual."

"Soul magic is a bit difficult to track but the absence of temporal abnormalities implies that someone or rather something is actively counteracting it—inadvertently stabilizing the time stream." Lovegood began to gather the empty plates by hand and for a while, only the sound of clinking china was heard.

"But that's, that's not possible. Not with the current research in Time," Augusta immediately replied a bit stunned by Lovegood's conclusion.

Croaker slumped in the settee. "That is precisely why we must find Unspeakable Patil as soon as possible—we need to know how this is happening."

"I thought it would come as a relief to you, Saul, that our friend—Patil was it?—isn't going around unbirthing people left and right."

"It's unnatural," Croaker replied firmly. "Patil doesn't belong in this time—now it's just a question of how long this magic can maintain her presence without warping time in the process."

"Is the bond really that powerful that it can render the effects of time travel inert?" Augusta asked quietly.

Croaker shook his head. "Not all effects—Patil was very fatigued when we arrived."

Lovegood looked hungry for details. "Were you able to ascertain whether that was due to her journey or if there were other factors in play?"

"Other factors?" Augusta prompted.

"Of course. There hasn't been a documented case of natural Soul bonding in nearly three centuries—"

"Natural?" For some reason, Augusta's mind had latched onto that particular word. "Implying that there are—"

"Aberrations," Birch clipped. "The less said of those the better." Despite Birch's warning, Augusta found herself intrigued and a bit frightened as well. And she had thought time travel was rather exciting!

"They will be at their most vulnerable until it stabilizes—now is likely our best chance of finding them."

"Our?" Croaker began to bluster.

Augusta sensing a quarrel a mile away merely interrupted hastily, "Any idea how long that will last?"

Lovegood stroked his beard as he gave a contemplative hum. "Hard to say. Birch has made great progress with the calculations, hopefully, if we pool our information we can narrow the search area to a reasonable amount."

Augusta's face curdled. Arithmancy wasn't her favorite subject but if it meant she'd be able to admire Birch's blue eyes up close, well, Augusta would definitely dust off that 'Exceeded Expectations' Professor Milliard had begrudgingly given her.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Shout out to Merriam Webster for satisfying my etymology curiosity.**

 **Why do we not know how old Binns is? Or how long he's been teaching—as a ghost or otherwise?**


	6. Shiny Sickle

**tw: snakes, blood, magical violence, and (terrible) poetry**

* * *

Tom certainly wasn't a fool. While he had wanted to provoke answers from her, he was smarter than to instigate a fight with a witch with unknown powers. "Apologies, sometimes my curiosity runs ahead of me." The platitude was false but Tom also knew that he would get nowhere if he convinced the witch to hate him so quickly.

The air was tense until Patil deflated; the tenseness in her shoulders collapsed, causing her to hunch slightly in her chair. "I'm sorry for being rather short with you but I don't particularly relish remembering that time of my life. It's best if it was left in the past—er—future." She gave him a tight smile. It was enough to let him know that he should be a bit more measured in his approach moving forward.

It was not enough to deter him completely as he asked, "How old were you?" He was far more curious about the timeline. He had managed to glean that she'd become an Unspeakable after the conflict had ended but something was not quite adding up.

"Seventh year," Patil responded in a hushed almost resigned tone. "Hogwarts had the worst of it."

Tom's eyebrows rose—her answer had taken him by such surprise that some of the emotion on his face was actually genuine. He could not fathom a world where even Hogwarts—the safest place, _his_ safest place—was embroiled in violence. He felt a surge of irrational anger. How could they desecrate Hogwarts by dragging it into their petty squabbles? How could they even dare—?

Tom tried to imagine its cavernous corridors and labyrinthine hallways and was unable to make them synonymous with a warzone. He found himself frowning. Even as cynical as Tom was (or rather pragmatic), Hogwarts was always apart. Always above anything else. Untouched as the haven it was.

Hogwarts had been Tom's since the moment Dumbledore had let the word slip from his lips. Even if it was decades in the future, Tom felt a sense of urgency that he could not let that happen.

On the other hand, Patil's answer made her behavior seem even more bizarre. He expected a bit more caution from someone who'd fought a war before reaching her majority. Why had she walked through the mirror so brazenly? And without a wand at that. Perhaps war had robbed her of her sense. Tom had seen a few of those before—remnants of the Great War—their eyes always trained on some unforeseen danger that haunted their living moments. Though they too had been proven right eventually as the world was soon pulled into even more conflict.

"Perhaps it's best that we change the subject," Patil suggested as Tom digested the revelation. "I'm rather curious of your Parseltongue abilities. Have you managed to find any decent reference manuals on the written portion of the language? Though I can't imagine Hogwarts would be the best place to look even if Slytherin was a Parselmouth."

Patil was unfortunately correct. Any mention of Parseltongue was nearly always in passing and usually in some rather musty history tome. He hadn't found anything practical and when his search in the Restricted Section had turned up empty as well, Tom had found himself abandoning that particular pursuit. He supposed he could have tried through a private collector though that was ludicrous considering his lack of funds. He had mostly focused on the origin of his ability—of his blood more than anything.

"You would be correct," Tom answered with some forced nonchalance. It would do to let her know how just hungry he was for information.

She sighed. "It's a shame that my books are sixty years in the future. I had a primer I managed to get my hands on during my travels on the continent."

"A primer? Like for children?" Why would anyone spend their time reading children's books? Even if they were supposedly written in Parselscript.

Patil nodded, smiling at his confusion. "I was told it was a child's spellbook. An introduction to Parselscript and the origins of the language itself. It has such a rich culture and heritage. Did you know that every Speaker can trace their lineage back to the one they call Neith, mother of Apep the Swallower of Suns?"

Tom knew exactly what Mrs. Cole would have said about that. Though even he had to admit that Swallower of Suns had a rather _certain_ ring to it. "Apep, isn't that from Egyptian mythology?"

Patil's eyes lit up, eagerly settling into the topic. "Bringer of Chaos and Devourer of Souls."

Tom found himself scoffing since Patil made it sound like she was retelling a story meant to scare children into obedience. "So I should be able to trace my Parseltongue ancestry to the beginning of time?" Apep was said to be the brother of Ra and if Parseltongue was said to come from his mother, then the language was quite ancient.

"There have always been Parselmouths just as there has always been magic. Usually passed down from mother to child," Patil replied matter of factly.

Tom blinked once then twice. "Is that fact?" Despite the fact that he had asked, Tom was already fully prepared to ignore her answer. All this time he had been certain that he received his magic—received Parseltongue—from his father. Had that simply been yet another thing he was wrong about? Another common fact that he hadn't known due to his Muggle upbringing? No—no, if his mother was a witch then she wouldn't have died! She wouldn't have left him there to rot in that miserable orphanage. Wizards considered children to be sacred if his mother had been a witch then—

Patil shrugged, utterly not understanding why it was so important for Tom to know. "Traditionally it was said magic is passed from mother to child but with the existence of Muggleborns, that theory's a bit dicey. Wizards used to think that a child's magical inheritance depended on their mother's abilities—though I suppose some still do—but I think that's because of how difficult childbirth can be."

"Childbirth is difficult?" Tom unknowingly parroted the words while rapidly blinking. "But they have magic—"

Patil had the audacity to snort at him. "I suppose as a bloke you likely wouldn't really understand but childbirth is considered one of the most magically taxing events a witch endures. There was an archaic scale in the 1600s that measured a witch's power by the number of magical children she'd birth and raise to their majority." Tom found himself gaping and Patil only nodded along as though agreeing with him. "It was rather barbaric, you're completely right. Solely basing a person's worth on their blood and fecundity? Might as well as branded witches like cattle."

Tom forcefully swallowed, not wanting to believe that perhaps he had been looking at his parents incorrectly all these years. "You said you had a primer?"

Patil didn't comment on the unsubtle change of topic instead responded, "Used to have one, yeah. I did manage to learn a bit of it though 'learn' is an exaggeration. I mostly copied lines like an illiterate child. Though thinking about it now has given me the semblance of an idea."

Tom watched curiously as she stood on shaky legs. He wondered if Patil was always this unsteady or if this was simply yet another unexpected consequence of everything that had occurred within the past eight hours.

"What's your idea?" He asked as she began to kneel in the dirt.

"Well, we may not have a primer nor ink but I did manage to get this."

Tom's stomach dropped when she saw her pull a piece of wood from her robes. Had she possessed a wand this entire time? His mind calmed when he recognized its odd pale color—an exact match to the large piece of driftwood Patil had been ogling earlier. He noticed that her hands were rubbed raw—she'd likely snapped a smaller branch off rather than find one in the sand.

"And how, may I ask, is a piece of driftwood going to help?" Even if he had seen what Patil had done with ink and blood, this was starting to border insanity in Tom's mind. This couldn't possibly be magic.

"There's magic in everything, the older items are absolutely saturated with it. Well, except for this thing called 'plastic' that the Muggles invented out of petroleum but driftwood has. . ."

It occurred to Tom that Patil was rather quiet until she got started, then she would chatter more than a bird. The witch continued to speak as she drew but Tom found himself slowly tuning out her words, focusing only on her actions. Her hands were steady likely because she was going sluggishly slow. There were long moments when Patil's hand would stop, likely because she was remembering what the next motion was. She drew large looping characters, each interconnected in such a way that she never once raised the piece of driftwood away from the floor. She crawled as the inscription continued, going around the chairs in a wide oval shape.

"When I first encountered Parselscript it looked more like squiggles than anything actually legible. A lot of wizards have actually mistaken it as doodles and for a while, I was certain that my own instructor was having me on. . ."

Tom didn't necessarily disagree with the assumption. The lines continued to be indecipherable to him, seeing only convoluted scribbling. Even when Patil had stopped, finally raising the driftwood from the dirt, and after he had waited for a few moments they remained stubbornly unintelligible.

The lines remained stationary, looking more like a child who'd played in the dirt or rather the crude imaginings of a mad witch. Tom attempted to withhold his sneer but it was a poor attempt.

Patil frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion and disappointment. "I suppose it was a shot in a dark—writing from memory without a reference. Just as well that Parselscript is harder to master than Parseltongue. "

Despite his disdain, Tom conceded that his curiosity had been ignited. Runes were time-consuming and finicky but any connection to his abilities as a Parselmouth—to his ancestry—was precious. Even if Patil mistakenly believed his mother had been a Speaker.

Tom silently resolved to renew his search for information on Parseltongue, perhaps scouring the Restricted Section with a finer comb. Not for a moment did he allow himself to consider that his return to Hogwarts was not written in stone. He would go back to the castle in September, regardless of whatever farce Patil had unwittingly dragged him into.

"We should try to rest," Patil suggested barely stifling a yawn as she rose from the ground. While Tom had no intention of sleeping in such a precarious situation—he made the motions to agree with her suggestion though he was certain that tonight would be another sleepless night.

No, he'd sleep once he had his wand safely in hand.

* * *

Tom dreamt.

He was flying just above the clouds, the sky was a brilliant blue and the wind felt warm against his skin. He outstretched his fingers, marveling as they brushed the edges of the clouds. Distantly he knew he shouldn't feel calm. He had no idea how he was flying or how to even control it but strangely those facts didn't bother him. Any worries he had were hard to hold onto as though they were more immaterial than the clouds around him.

The sky darkened much to his confusion and when he tilted his head up for a split moment, he mistakenly believed he was staring up at the night's sky. After a moment he realized what he was, in fact, seeing were the stark black feathers of an enormous bird flying directly overhead. He should have felt afraid since the creature was as large as a dragon but he only felt a sense of wonder akin to how he used to feel about magic—how he felt about it when he was taking his first steps as a wizard. He had always used magic as a weapon, as a way to inflict pain on the world—no, he remembered the day he learned he was a Parselmouth. Spotting the green snake hiding in the grass, remembering the way its tongue moved and the wonder and awe he felt as it called to him. The way its scales felt underneath his fingertips silken smooth—smoother than any sheet he'd find in the orphanage.

The bird screeched, tearing Tom from his reverie. Time had passed quickly for the sky was already darkening, bleeding orange and pink as they continued to sail through the air. The clouds dispersed to reveal that they were sailing over a great ocean, dark and turbulent. Apprehension began to seep into Tom's mind—something was wrong.

The giant bird released another terrible screech, the sound ringing in his ear for several moments before it dove through the clouds. Tom felt its absence as obvious as a winter breeze, chilling his flesh to the bone.

He spotted a dark speck no larger than his thumb out on the horizon. His speed increased, shifting from lackadaisical to urgent without warning. The speck grew until he realized that it was actually a landmass—a single island surrounded by the vastness of the ocean. Tom was hurtling towards it without any control, wind whipping his clothing and face.

As Tom approached the island, he was startled to find a large snake coiled upon an outcropping of stone. It towered like a mountain; its amber eyes large enough to rival the sun. Its mouth was cavern-like, gaping open and lined with jagged yellow fangs larger than buildings.

It was then that his flight turned freefall. His heart stopping as he fell through the air, body twisting and wrenching as he struggled to see, to breathe, to think. At one point he remembered and screamed Parseltongue.

But why would a giant have any reason to listen to an ant?

The serpent did not answer his commands nor his pleas. He reached desperately for his magic as his body twisted through the air. It was fruitless; he felt as though he was trying to capture a river with his bare hands. Tom could just barely feel magic just outside his grasp but for whatever reason, it refused to bend, to obey his will.

He was going to die, Tom realized, and not even his magic would save him.

* * *

Tom woke with a great start, gasping for breath. His skin felt as though it was on fire, burning away from his flesh. He had fallen asleep in front of the stove which still kept the room dimly lit. Tom grimaced as he sat up straight—his bones ached from sleeping in a chair but the pain felt deeper than that. As though something was trying to slowly but surely pull the meat off his bones.

He glanced to left, expecting to find Patil fast asleep but the chair was conspicuously empty. His neck jerked in surprise as he inspected each corner of the room but Patil was nowhere to be found. Had she poisoned him? He had to dismiss the possibility—Tom himself had prepared the tea. She could have tainted the water somehow; the only moment he hadn't kept her in his sight was when she had gone to draw water from the hand pump.

It would certainly explain how he managed to fall asleep in such a strange and dangerous place without his wand by his side.

The door to the cottage swung open noisily causing Tom to flinch.

Patil staggered in—no that was false since her feet weren't even touching the ground. She was levitating, her body nearly as limp as a rag doll and her eyes closed as though she was still asleep. Behind her stood a man; his wand at the ready in his head keeping it aimed at Patil and Tom. Whatever warmth inside the cottage was gone and Tom found himself frozen in place.

"Pity she didn't try to run," the man rasped. His English was accented, Tom quietly noted. The man then laughed. "It's always a bit more fun that way."

Patil floated over to the spare chair where the man settled her so gently that the chair didn't even creak underneath her weight. His care was directly at odds with the bruise blossoming on her face and the cut at the corner of her mouth.

Irritation and fear ran in tandem in Tom's mind though there was an undercurrent of practicality. He needed to steal the man's wand—the sooner the better.

"Let's wake her up, shall we?" The man flicked his wrist in a sharp curve while muttering something under his breath, causing Patil to gasp into wakefulness as though something was trying to crush her windpipe. Tom could feel echoes of her pain—it was so visible on her face and made his own aching flesh throb harder. Her eyes blinked rapidly and the man hummed in approval. "Good, now that everyone is accounted for—we can finally leave."

Tom's mind quickly swept over the stranger's details as though to find some clues to weakness or vulnerability but nothing was forthcoming. He was dressed in a russet brown suit, pressed clean and crisp in a way that only magic could manage. There was nothing familiar in the man's face except for that infuriating smugness that radiated out of his eyes. Self-assured in the way only a man holding a wand at two defenseless children could be.

"The two of you certainly don't look like much." The man tittered, privy to a joke only he knew. He shrugged lightly as though dismissing whatever thought had entered his mind. "But they're payin' a very shiny sickle for the both of you."

Tom bit the side of his mouth to prevent the revelation from showing on his face. It was still shocking to hear the man confirm beyond a doubt that they were being hunted like animals.

"You're utterly depraved." Patil spat literal blood, spraying bloody spittle across the floor.

The man wrinkled his nose, muttering something underneath his breath. Tom had the vaguest idea that it was familiar but his blood was pounding too loudly in his own head for him to discern the words he may haven spoken. The man then flicked his wrist and Tom swore he felt his neurons explode in his mind. Pain searing as bright and sharp as sparks from a loud fire. His body would have jerked out of his seat but conjured rope tied his arms behind the back of the chair.

"Careful, lass, they said nothing about keepin' your brain between your ears." The wizard sounded utterly bored before pulling out a pocket watch, its chain was a dull silver seemingly never polished.

It was difficult for Tom to prioritize anything else besides the pain but he focused on the weight of the knife in his pocket, using it as an anchor as the drowning undercurrent of his other less practical thoughts. As a young child, he'd been able to levitate things with varying amounts of success. It had always left him with skull-splitting migraines especially if the object was particularly large but he had always managed—he'd once made a book fly around his room like a bird before it ripped itself from its cover.

He could move the knife until it cut the bindings on his hands—conjured rope was still rope after all. But after he had his hands free then what? Surprise the wizard by throwing a rusted knife at his chest?

His mental fretting was interrupted by a softly hissed, _"Who summoned me?"_

Tom dared not to glance at the snake—because it had to be a snake because he'd recognize Patil's voice especially if she was speaking Parseltongue and the wizard hadn't even glanced up from his watch—though he desperately wanted to.

"Who's they?" Patil asked, her voice sounding raw. Tom did not allow his eyes to glance in her direction even as he wondered if she had heard the snake or if the pounding in his head was making him hear voices.

The wizard shifted in place, eyes lifting up from the face of his watch to look Patil directly in the eyes. "Unless you've got dung for sense, you'd best be keepin' quiet. I'm sure a Naga's tongue would buy me a dragon made o' gold. Don't think you'll be needin' it much where you're going."

Patil gasped loudly, and it was the perfect cover for Tom to glance at the snake slithering in the dirt. Long and sinuous as it trailed through the dirt and marred Patil's scribbling. It was unlike any serpent Tom had ever seen before with its cherry-red scales and black crossbands but that mattered little to him at the moment as he answered, _"Your Speaker commands you."_

The serpent cocked its head, tasting the air before beginning to coil and Tom yanked at the magic in his veins. His mind skimmed through dozens of memories—he'd done this very action dozens of times in the early days of his youth—and he refused to falter now, refused to let his magic fail him now when he needed it most. Even if it had been years since he'd done something more complex with his magic than simply unlock a door without his wand.

Tom felt the knife rattle in his pocket.

Patil kept talking—Merlin, how did she ever survive a war if she kept talking?— "If my tongue's worth that much then I don't think _they'll_ be glad to see my blood's been spilt."

The wizard moved closer to where Patil was bound to her chair. "Now listen here—"

Tom's timing wasn't perfect much to his disgust but it was adequate.

The serpent suddenly lunged, latching itself onto the wizard's ankle embedding its fangs deep into flesh and bone. The wizard screamed, limbs flailing wildly as Tom's magic pulled on the knife, ripping the seam of his pocket before barely arching around his torso and slicing through the rope and the flesh of his forearms.

His hands were slick with blood as Tom dove forward, mind and will utterly focused on a single point—the wand the wizard had dropped in his panic as the snake clung to his limb before steadily entwining itself around both of his legs.

Tom clenched his jaw, silencing the pain as he dove forward slightly grimacing as his blood mixed with the dirt floor as he reached for the wand. Triumph was sweet even if it meant a bloodstained wand and sore knees. He shuffled backward, the wand held in a bruising grip, careful to keep his distance from the wizard. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to keep his breathing steady as he finally decided to glance over at Patil who had shouted once the serpent had attacked but had since quieted.

Her eyes were wide with shock; she pursed her lips as she switched her gaze from him to their would-be-captor and back to him. For a long moment, Tom considered his options. Disposing of the wizard, of course, took priority but what would he do with Patil? He could just leave her here—he was sure the Unspeakables had some method of tracking her whereabouts considering how quickly they'd arrived in his room. But they'd inevitably ask questions—Obliviating one witch was trivial but an entire department was a bit more difficult.

No, it'd be best if he took her with him. Whoever was hunting them wanted them _both_ for some reason and Tom was determined to get his answers first. Patil clearly knew much more than she let on and Tom would know—even if he had to rip it out of her mind first.

The wand felt brittle in his hands as though it was a dry twig fit to snap if he flexed it a certain way. Nonetheless, all it took was a flick of his wrist to free her from her bonds and siphon off most of the excess blood off his hands. The cut, thankfully, was relatively shallow but Tom was unsure of attempting healing magic for the first time particularly with a wand that seemed so fragile.

Patil was unafraid as she looked up at him, the bloodstained wand still outstretched in his hand. Rather, she turned all of her focus onto the wizard squirming ineffectually against the serpent's iron-tight hold. Its long sinewy body now wrapped snugly around his torso and even encircled his throat—tight enough to make his breathing forceful and harsh.

" _Can you let him go?"_ Patil asked quietly.

Both Tom and the serpent hissed in surprise to her question but the serpent spoke first. _"Why would I do such a thing? The pact is binding—payment for protection."_

"Payment?" Patil echoed in English before shaking her head. _"We—I need to know why. Who sent him? How did he know to find us?"_

" _What payment?"_ Tom first asked, they likely still had time to retrieve the wizard from the serpent's grasp. Unless of course, the venom killed him first.

" _Blood of the speaker was spilt and offered."_ His eyes tracked to where Patil had spat blood on the floor before shifting to look at the drops around the chair where he had been bound.

He'd never summoned a serpent with his blood before. Tom didn't even think it was possible unless Patil's scribbling hadn't been entirely useless. He let his eyes drift over the dirt, blinking as the Runes shifted before his eyes. They were moving ever so slightly until he made out the words:

" **Seven drops spilt and offered.**

 **O' ware to those who wander'd** —

 **Keep your tongue sharp**

 **Lest the fool won't linger,**

 **For the Naga too**

 **must have its dinner."**

"By Lakshmi's luck, it actually _worked,_ " Padma stated breathlessly, gaze entirely focused on the ground. He watched her kneel in the dirt, hands gently moving towards the twisting inscription.

Tom cleared his throat. "Perhaps that can wait for another time?" He gestured meaningfully at their now captive while sucking his teeth. Ravenclaws were all the same—always focused on the entirely _wrong_ thing.

"Well the primer certainly didn't mention _anything_ like that," Patil muttered under her breath while frowning. She directed her attention to Tom, stepping towards him. _"We can't leave him like this—he's the only source of information we have at the moment."_

Tom frowned, he had half a mind to exact revenge especially with how quickly his blood and magic rushed in his veins but he forcibly exhaled. Patil was correct.

" _How long until the venom runs its course?"_ Tom asked the serpent; it wouldn't do if the man just dropped dead within the next few minutes.

" _Liquefaction takes several hours at the least. I've never had prey this large before—I'll be feasting for weeks."_ While snake couldn't quite smile, its eyes positively gleamed in the lowlight of the cottage. It even gave an excited hiss, squeezing its prey even harder for a moment making the wizard give out a sputtered curse.

" _Well, if we've got a few hours, could you at least ease off his throat? I imagine it must be difficult to talk with a snake wrapped around his neck."_

To Tom's great surprise, the snake did just that even if it gave her a displeased and irritated look.

The wizard took great gasps of air, his body shuddering as he was fully aware that his breaths were literally numbered now. Tom watched as Patil crouched slightly, making sure she caught the eyes of their would-be captor and held his gaze evenly.

"Now then, we've just learned that your organs are literally liquefying by the moment. So you have any useful information it would be best to share with the class, hm?" She smiled as though she'd just invited him to tea.

Tom fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose when the wizard merely cursed at her loudly, his attempts at freeing himself become much more pronounced and frantic. A typical Berkeley hunt then, of course.

He had initially been hesitant to reveal his Legilimency abilities to Patil, especially since it was still a budding skill and not quite an outright ability but talking to the wizard was going to get them nowhere. Especially since Tom was reticent to extract the snake from the wizard, it was a small taste of the pain he expected to extricate in due time.

So Tom pulled on his magic, but rather than diverting it to the wand in his hand, he drew it further upwards, feeling it coalesce in the blind spot of his eyes. It was difficult—hazardous more like—the wizard's mind was a mess of panic, paranoia, and anxiety. Tom felt the emotions sharply jab his forehead as though they were physical blows. Traditional Legilimency would be near-impossible in this state even if Tom managed to yank on his consciousness like a like an errant thread.

Unbidden, a memory flew to the forefront of his mind. A well-fed white bunny hypnotized by his eyes and voice—calm, too calm for what was about to happen. That had been long ago before he even really understood what was in his blood. He hadn't used Latin or even Parseltongue—no just the King's English that the teachers would beat into them coupled with eye contact. That had been enough to convince two children never to speak of that dark afternoon in the cave even if fear warped them from the inside out—enough to convince a rabbit's heart to stop beating. He forced his magic down into his throat and mouth and kept it there, letting it seep into the flesh of his tongue.

"Perhaps it would be best to salvage your first impression with an introduction. A proper introduction is only polite, after all." Tom heard Patil shift slightly but he kept his gaze locked onto the wizard. Tom had always wondered what his voice sounded like in this state—he'd yet to encounter the ability in any book so far—but no one ever seemed to notice him using it at Hogwarts. He would rather conclude that this was a unique talent altogether, something the world had never seen before.

The wizard's blue eyes were blown wide, almost glassy in appearance. For several moments all the man did was stare in a dazed sort of confusion which reminded Tom of Mrs. Cole whenever she saw the bottom of a gin bottle. Finally, he opened his mouth and responded in a soft mumble, "Linus Maloney."

Tom smiled. "Pleasure. Now I'm sure you're well aware of who we are—"

"The Naganath—" the wizard gasped before repeating the word over and over under his breath, whatever brief calm Tom had forced him into was beginning to spiral into deep anxiety. "NaganathNaganathNaganath—"

"None of that now, Mr. Maloney." Tom's displeasure sank into his voice causing Maloney to flinch. "Tell us why you brought us here."

"No Ministry meddling—isolate then trap as κυνηγός instructed." Maloney choked out. The man started weeping openly now, tears streaming down his whiskered face as he grunted.

But why here? Tom wanted to ask but he was loathed to draw this to Patil's attention. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to snoop around the caves, even as young as he had been, Tom was certain that the mark of his magic was still there. The best way to avoid uncomfortable questions was to keep them from being asked.

Before Tom could ask what he meant, Patil decided then to speak up. "He's using Greek for 'Huntress', certainly pretentious when they seem like incompetent kidnappers."

"Who is the Huntress?" Tom asked, his magic giving a bit of a forceful push.

Maloney sniffed wetly as snot joined his tears. "She won't forgive this failure—she'll find us, find you and then she'll—"

His words ended with a sharp _crack!_ as Maloney and snake disappeared from view entirely leaving behind faint lines in the dirt.

Maloney's sudden absence was absolutely jarring to Tom, causing a faint sharp pulse just behind his eyes and at the center of his throat.

"Illegal portkey," Patil grumbled. "Must have gone off in his pocket."

Tom clutched his head, unable to respond to her theory due to the pain of the magical backlash. He made a mental note to ensure that would not happen during future attempts—he very nearly dropped the wand because of it.

"You didn't heal the cut," Padma murmured. "And what was that spell that you used? Your eyes almost—" She stopped mid-sentence to abruptly rub her arm uncomfortably. Tom nearly flinched when she pulled at his sleeve to take a closer look at the broken skin of his forearm. "The incantation is Episkey. Wand movement is simple, just point but keep it steady okay?"

While Tom was relieved that she didn't attempt to take the wand from him, he couldn't understand why she simply gave him the incantation rather than just perform the healing herself.

Patil interpreted his reticence incorrectly. "Don't worry about the Trace. It doesn't track individuals but rather where magic is performed. Seeing as we're in the middle of bloody nowhere, I doubt it'll attract very much attention." The Trace was the last thing on Tom's mind at the moment but he very much wasn't going to tell her that.

"Episkey," Tom stated firmly, watching as his skin knit back together neatly only leaving behind a bright pink scar.

"Excellent, now—"

"Why did he call you a Naga?" Tom asked. "And what is a Naga anyway?" That seemed to be awfully pertinent information at the moment. Especially if Maloney had threatened to sell her tongue for a sum of money.

Patil's face contorted, the two main emotions seemed to be doubt and discomfort. "I think it's related to whatever caused me to suddenly understand Parseltongue."

He was dissatisfied with her answer and chose to push his magic back into his eyes. Legilimency, then. Hopefully, it would actually _work_ this time.

She looked away, chewing on her lip furiously. "We need to leave this place at once. He put up a fairly large Anti-Disapparition Jinx around the area. They've likely already realized that they've failed and this is the first place they'll look for us."

Tom didn't like this one bit but surrendered to the fact that he wouldn't be letting Patil out of his sight until he extracted every last drop of information hiding in that head of hers. "What are you suggesting?"

"Side-Along Apparition—the Knight Bus will draw unwanted attention and I've left my galleons in the future."

"The Knight what?" Wizards used buses? Why on Earth had he been using Muggle means to get to King's Cross every year then?

Patil was already out the door, ignoring his question. Tom clenched the wand in his fist but quickly followed, making sure to slam the door behind him.

The air was calm in a way that made Tom's skin prickle. The waves continued to crash against the shoreline but there was an ominous silence that blanketed their surroundings.

Patil had stopped closer to the shoreline though the ground was still solid dirt rather than sand.

"How do you know this is far enough?" Tom asked.

She squinted at him. "Can't you feel—nevermind that now. I'll explain later just give me the wand."

Tom reluctantly stepped closer; his stomach dropped when Patil looped her arm around his with a huff. He kept a tight hold on her shoulder and elbow, careful to keep his hands on fabric at all times after pushing the wand into her waiting palm.

Patil grimaced a bit, the wand was still a bit sticky from the blood before taking a deep, cleansing breath. "Any complaints against Hogsmeade?"

"You mean to take us to Hogwarts?" Tom asked half-startled by the suggestion. He would have thought she'd take them back to the Department of Mysteries. Though he could understand her reasoning, the hunt had started there after all. "Make sure to Apparate us outside the gate. You can't Apparate onto the grounds directly."

She acknowledged his words with a nod before closing her eyes.

"Full disclosure," Patil started as she squeezed his arm tightly—Tom ignored the way her warmth seemed to burn him, "I failed my Apparition Exam three times."

"You—"

 _ **Pop!**_

* * *

 **A/N:**

Calliophis bibroni don't usually grow that long but eh, it was summoned by magic so give me a break will ya?

Berkeley hunt is a stand-in for a fairly naughty word. I did my best to research some Cockney rhyming slang but it's difficult to insert into dialogue at the moment—hopefully soon though! Always liked the idea of prim and proper Tom Riddle having the most atrocious accent that he hides from the posh Purebloods.

What Tom did to Maloney was a bit of magical hypnosis—more on that later but it's based on the old myth that snakes can hypnotize their prey. In reality, they stare because of their poor eyesight (lol).

Thank you for the reviews! Can't wait to read your thoughts on this chapter :)


	7. They Arrive

The moment her feet met solid ground again, Padma would have buckled over if it hadn't been for Riddle's firm grip on her arm. She wobbled unsteadily, eventually managing to push him away as she fell onto her knees and made sick all over the base of a tree.

She absolutely _loathed_ Apparating, preferring to Floo or simply use the Knight Bus. On rare occasions, she'd even use her old but reliable Bluebottle Dragonfly even though she would have much preferred using a flying carpet but those were still banned in the UK, unfortunately. Padma wiped off the spittle around her mouth with the back of her sleeve, half-embarrassed that she did such a thing but more than relieved that she now had a wand to clean her mouth.

She'd never vomited after Apparating before but she'd also never attempted to travel such a long distance nevermind with a passenger. Riddle, who had stepped back when she was vacating her stomach, didn't comment though his visible disgust was enough to make his thoughts clear.

"Where are we?" Riddle asked curtly. She couldn't blame him since they certainly weren't in Hogsmeade. They had arrived in a small clearing within a forest, the ground dotted with wildflowers but the air had a chill that contradicted the soft light which poured in between the leaves of the trees.

Padma frowned as she glanced around at their surroundings, eyes catching on a nearby cedar tree. It was overtly obvious that she had miscalculated the distance but something told her that this was familiar. The magic was heavy in the air, she could feel it as she took quiet breaths to calm her nausea. She _remembered_ this magic.

"We're in the Forbidden Forest," she finally answered, feeling more confident as time went by. This had been the rendezvous point for if the worst was to come—it was far enough to where the wards wouldn't prevent Disapparition but close enough to the castle that the more dangerous inhabitants of the forest rarely visited. She shivered at the thought; if the students had fled into the Forbidden Forest, the Death Eaters would have hunted them like animals. She could hear the howls of the werewolves, half-transformed and ravenous—

"Are you _mad_?" Riddle demanded, startling Padma out of her reverie. She was partially glad, unable to suppress a shudder at where her thoughts had ventured. "You could have splinched us!"

"I'd rather be splinched in the Forbidden Forest than wait for Maloney's colleagues to show up." It was bitter but it was the truth. Maloney had wanted to sell her tongue on the market as though it were a _potions ingredient_. Gods, it made her want to vomit again as literal bile rose back up her throat. "We shouldn't be too far from the castle."

At least Padma had hoped so; she was fairly certain of their location but even six decades was enough time to change a forest even one as ancient as the Forbidden Forest.

Padma attempted to rise to her feet but her legs disobeyed, trembling until she fell back onto the ground. She felt exhausted, limbs heavy with a bone-deep tiredness that smothered every sense and every thought. Padma hadn't actually slept a wink's worth during the night, overflowing with nervous energy and now all she wanted to do was to collapse into the dirt and sleep for several decades until she was finally back in her own time. A purposeful Rip Van Winkle.

She sat there, unmoving, wondering if Riddle was right and she truly was mad. It certainly felt that way. She wanted to be back home—to drink chai with Parvati while she listened to the latest gossip her twin had charmed out of her customers. Anything to keep her mind from running over what Maloney had so callously threatened.

He'd called them Nagas.

But Nagas weren't real, at least not any longer. Nani had made them into children's bogeymen—something to scare them when they were being naughty. Creatures who shifted from snake to human and sometimes something in between; it had been enough to scare Padma senseless considering how much she had feared snakes.

The keyword being _had_ ; she'd gotten over her fear of snakes when she'd learned there were far worse creatures hiding in human skin. Padma clenched her fists wondering if that had been what the portal had done to her. Had she become a creature wearing flesh? A child's nightmare come to life? Her skin burned as she remembered the snake inked upon her arms, wondering if the mark had been deep enough to touch her magic and _twist_ it into something completely _other_.

"Patil!"

Padma blinked, suddenly realizing that she was still on the ground and that Riddle was shouting her name.

His mouth was curled in frustration; the wand clenched in his fist—when did that happen?—wasn't exactly pointed directly at her but its presence was obvious and sobering. The boy (because that was all he was in her mind, the _boy_ she'd dragged into this mess—away from his home and the safety of his bed—the one who was now hunted) stood over her in a manner that could have been threatening if Padma had an ounce of energy to dwell on it.

"Did Apparating take your wits?" He asked imperiously.

 _Maybe,_ her thoughts answered back impishly; maybe she'd lost them all already and this was her shell, shallow and empty. She wanted to stew in this despair until the sun sank and rose and sank again but his magic—his will—refused.

"My legs aren't working," Padma responded flatly, astutely ignoring the disdain in his voice. "At least not at the moment. Apparating like that takes a lot of magic and I'm not sure I have the strength to move just yet." _Or the will,_ her mind whispered.

"Perhaps I should go and get help," he suggested but Padma read the promise in his eyes. He'd leave her to rot at the mercy of this forest. She couldn't quite blame him, however, not when he was completely justified in his ire. She deserved his anger especially when it had robbed him of his security.

And the terrible, horrible fact was that a part of her wanted him to do it. She was so tired and so tempted to rest her weary head on the cold, unyielding ground—even if it meant never waking up again.

"And leave you to the mercies of the Forest?" Padma squinted a bit at him, nearly everyone in Hogwarts had a healthy respect for the Forbidden Forest. Even graduated adults didn't venture aimlessly around the forest alone, let alone a fifth-year with a stolen and likely unreliable wand.

"I'm hardly helpless I assure you," he bit back as he raised the wand and her attention was drawn back to the stout piece of wood.

It was an ugly wand and it had felt brittle in her hand. Padma hadn't held another person's wand in quite some time. The last time had been when she and Parvati wanted to know if their wands were interchangeable—(they weren't)—but even then her sister's wand hadn't felt so cold in her hand. Maloney's wand had felt practically lifeless as though it had been hollowed out by its owner's defeat. Did all wands feel like that? It was difficult to draw a conclusion based on the experience but she'd Apparated half-afraid that Maloney's wand would disintegrate into ash in her hand mid-travel. Padma wasn't able to ponder more on it as Riddle stepped forward, casting a shadow over her prone figure. He didn't speak further but his magic was enough; its tumultuous ripples forced her to focus on him. He had such a strong presence for someone so young, Padma thought.

His magic shifted so quickly it nearly made her eyes dizzy as she watched his aura smooth itself over so perfectly with such ease that Padma doubted she could replicate. "I've been patient, _witch_ , but the last confrontation has made it abundantly clear that you've withheld some rather damning details." His eyes reminded her of Bluebell flames, bright and cold. "That ends now."

* * *

Augusta was beginning to understand Croaker's distrust of Unspeakable Lovegood. The elder wizard had woken them up with two separate Floo calls scarcely an hour after dawn. Now here they were braving cold ocean air and nearly freezing their bits off even though it was well past mid-July. Augusta murmured a silent apology to her mother under her breath—there was nothing more heavenly than a well-placed Warming charm on a cloak.

She was guardedly hopeful that Lovegood had a good reason for dragging them out to this empty beach though his silence as they took in their surroundings wasn't encouraging. She and Croaker had spent hours in Lovegood and Birch's office, poring over Arithmanic equations that kept changing with every inane question Lovegood asked. Did they know what Patil had eaten that day? What was the temperature in the room when they'd arrived? What was the color of Riddle's eyes? Lovegood had claimed that no detail was meaningless—that some crucial variable would eventually result in Birch computing the probability of where their lost wards had ended up.

And sometime before dawn, she'd done just that or so Lovegood had claimed. The fact that Birch hadn't chosen to accompany them was understandable but Augusta couldn't help but envy the witch—she was far too sleep-deprived and irritable to comfortably babysit these two old toads. Croaker was unusually silent (never a good sign, especially considering how dreary their surroundings were), as he took the time to stow away the used Portkey in one of his pockets. She couldn't quite place his expression as he gazed out towards the sea but she readied herself while lamenting the fact she hadn't thought to bring a flask of Pep-Up(1) with her. Hell, even a flask of Firewhisky would be welcomed nevermind the early time.

Lovegood leisurely patted down his pockets after their arrival and Augusta wondered what on Earth he was looking for. Especially since his wand was stowed awkwardly under his left armpit as he continued to check his cherry-red cloak while muttering under his breath. Just as Augusta was about to suggest simply casting a Summoning charm, the older wizard gave out an exalted "Eureka!"

From his pockets emerged two L-shaped rods slightly longer than twice the length of his hands—they wouldn't have really caught her notice if it wasn't for the fact that they were clearly carved out of some kind of pale crystal.

"You expect to find our lost time-traveler by dowsing(2)?" Croaker's sneer was more malicious than mocking and Augusta was fairly certain the early hour was only partly to blame.

"Birch's equations are excellent of course but this location was just one of many probable destinations. Besides, you and I both know that no one's developed a spell to track magic as well as good old fashioned dowsing." Lovegood smiled as he placed one rod securely in each hand.

Augusta's brow furrowed in confusion. "But aren't divining rods typically made from wood?" The practice was antiquated, certainly, but she'd never heard of anyone using crystal before.

Lovegood was silent as he stood perfectly still and Croaker huffed before tossing her a bone. "Hazel or willow wood is usually preferred since most wizards used them to find water or gold. What Lovegood is trying to find is much trickier to track." The pair watched as Lovegood's arms began to subtly vibrate as he held out the rods. "He's trying to locate large quantities of magic."

"Their bond is still in its early stages," Lovegood explained as he took care to keep the rest of his body perfectly still which was difficult as the ocean breeze played with his cloak. "As it strengthens, their magic will coalesce in such a way that would be impossible for an ordinary wizard."

Augusta watched as the rods began to ever so slightly point to a cave in the near-distance. Lovegood took long, measured strides with his body leaning forward. It was certainly strange to witness since Augusta had only ever read of the practice from books and had never seen anyone try it in person. Lovegood's serene face was unusually focused as she and Croaker followed several paces behind.

Augusta was quietly unconvinced as she whispered to Croaker, "How in Merlin's name is that supposed to work if Lovegood's a wizard? Won't the rods keep pointing back to him?"

"Lovegood's a decent wizard but not nearly magically powerful enough for that to be a problem," Croaker murmured and Augusta bit back a gasp because she was fairly sure the salty air was likely going to his head, "Willow witching is Old magic used for when wizards wanted to settle their coven on ley lines."

Augusta wanted to argue that Patil and Riddle couldn't possibly have enough magic to rival a ley line but the destruction of Riddle's room halted her doubts. "Is their magic just going to keep. . . _growing_?" She asked, horrified at the prospect.

For several moments Croaker said nothing and Augusta had thought that she hadn't spoken loud enough to be heard over the crashing sea waves until he answered, "I don't know but the possibility is repugnant."

Repugnant but not impossible.

After some time they finally stood before the gaping maw of a cave. Its interior was dark and dreadful even in the morning light causing a sudden chill to creep up her spine. There something old and foreboding about this particular place that made her magic crackle uncomfortably underneath her skin. She reached for her wand, gripping it securely while trying to settle her nervous stomach. The two crystal rods were crossed and if she watched Lovegood carefully, it was obvious that his arms along with the rest of his torso were leaning inexplicably towards it.

"I don't like the look of this cave, Phileas." Croaker's words were a balm to her worries. She was an experienced Unspeakable who'd had done her fair share of fieldwork—she knew enough to trust her magic even when it wasn't making any sense—and she was grateful that Croaker was much the same.

"We're facing a possible answer to our questions, Saul, don't get cold feet just yet." Lovegood waited for two beats before he stowed away the divining rods while Croaker took the opportunity to mutter a few choice words for his senior colleague. Lovegood then entered the cave, and Augusta watched as first his shadow and then the rest of him disappeared inside.

"Wand up Urey, and keep your wits about you." Her partner nodded to her before following Lovegood. Croaker's own wand was held high while casting a brilliant Lumos.

Augusta released a long sigh before shaking her head. "Birch had the right idea. I should have left these two fools to it and stayed in bed."

She entered the cave, grimacing at the damp air that sat heavy in her lungs. Thankfully, Croaker and Lovegood hadn't strayed off too far, peering around at the jagged rock formations that cropped up from the ground and above their heads. She could never quite remember what they were called.

A particularly large and pointed one dangled precariously overhead. Lovegood noticed her staring and commented, "Beautiful stalactite, isn't it?"

 _Ah, that was what it was_ , August thought, at least now she knew the name of it if it decided to suddenly impale her.

"Air's getting heavier," Augusta remarked, it felt like an invisible weight had settled on her head and shoulders, making her movements stiff and awkward.

"That's not air, Urey," Croaker answered.

"No, what we are feeling is aether itself—we must be extraordinarily close to a ley line." Even Lovegood's exuberance was strained.

Augusta felt sick. The air was thick and oppressive was though her lungs were rattling and straining with every breath she took. Merlin and Morgana—was this what pure unadulterated magic felt like? What idiot would want to build a home on top of it? It felt like a powderkeg just waiting to explode at the slightest brush. She shuddered.

"Why's it feel so angry?" The word seemed utterly insufficient to explain the emotion it was saturated with but she had to know. "Is it always. . .?"

"Something happened here," Lovegood guessed. "Something strong enough to wake the ley line(3)."

Augusta frowned, how was that even possible? Ley lines didn't sleep and they certainly didn't 'wake' either. "Well, that certainly doesn't sound very safe."

"It isn't," Croaker intoned. There was visible sweat on his brow despite the chill and the fact that they were only illuminated by wand-light. Augusta felt she likely looked the same considering how the very air was trying to collapse on top of them. "We should go; there's no evidence that they even entered the cave and no one's fool enough to try to Apparate directly into a ley line."

Lovegood gave him a reproachful look. "So quick to give up, Saul."

Croaker snarled and the air shook from it. "Bugger off, Phileas, I'd rather not try my luck in the midst of wild magic as we walk further and further into a ley line!"

 _Wild magic?_ Augusta found it difficult to swallow as Croaker's anger reverberated throughout the cave—going so far as to twist his words into a chilling echo. Croaker then turned on his heel and stomped out and Augusta was quick to follow, not wanting to chance death by a stalactite.

Augusta took deep breaths as though trying to swallow the cool salted air after leaving the cave. She tried her best to appear unaffected but truthfully she was deeply shaken. She had never in her decades felt magic like that before and she wasn't eager to do so a second time. "Was their magic the reason the cave is so. . ." Augusta let the end of the sentence drift off into the sea.

"Possibly," Lovegood acquiesced but he seemed skeptical. "But the magic was far too old and too concentrated. No that cave, for what it's worth, is years in the making, perhaps even a decade or so."

"Besides with their magic as volatile as it is, I doubt they would have left the cave still standing if that was the case." Croaker gave a dry laugh though it was obvious that he didn't find that notion to be the least bit funny.

Lovegood nodded in agreement before abruptly changing the subject, "It would be best for me to try further away from the sea this time."

"Hang on," Augusta blurted out. "You can't possibly be suggesting that we just leave the cave as it is without informing someone."

Lovegood blinked in surprise. "Why in Merlin's name would we do that?"

"It can't possibly be safe for just anyone to be able to venture inside! What if a Muggle finds it and just goes in? Shouldn't we cast a few a Muggle-repelling charms at the very least?"

"No, no, adding additional magic would be unwise at this stage," Lovegood answered. "Best to leave it alone, I think."

"The ley line's magic will eventually be reabsorbed into the stone and seawater," Croaker attempted to reassure her but his face was too grim for that. Augusta understood what he wasn't telling her, however, with the amount of magic they'd felt in that cave that process would take centuries at the very least.

Augusta disagreed, however, since she felt as though leaving that malevolence unchecked was a mistake but she didn't have the slightest clue on what else she could do. Perhaps Lovegood and Croaker had the right of it after all, and that it was best to just leave it be. Maybe she'd be better off figuring out how to describe the cave without using the word 'creepy' or 'spooky' in the inevitable report.

They walked for some time after that and Augusta was thankful that the air started to warm though she still felt incredibly tired. She felt as though she wanted to drink several cups of tea and then settle into a long nap. Thankfully both Croaker and Lovegood had kept rather quiet as they trudged along though she began to wonder how long that particular luxury would last especially since she was beginning to feel quite peckish and knew that Croaker likely felt the same. She was so lost in her thoughts that she very nearly ran into Lovegood's back if it hadn't been for Croaker grabbing her by the shoulders.

Lovegood had grown very still, arms shaking as he slowly swiveled his body until his arms began to point what looked like a shack in the near distance. "It's very faint and dissipating rapidly but I think it's worth a look."

Augusta was thankful that the shack didn't look half as daunting as the cave. She hung back as the door swung open noisily as though it was fit to fall off the hinges.

"Oh dear," Lovegood stated very quietly. Augusta froze as she peered around his shoulder, staring at the writhing mass on the dirt floor of the hovel. The three of them stood there for several moments watching as dozens of snakes slithered and intertwined themselves before Croaker gently pushed the door shut.

Augusta continued to blink several times, half-wondering if what she'd seen was an illusion brought on by lack of sleep and the latent fear from the cave. "What in the seven hells was _that_?"

"Rather odd for someone to summon so many snakes, especially considering the climate," Lovegood commented, though he too seemed bewildered. Augusta thought that was his first appropriate reaction all morning. "But unfortunately not entirely suspicious."

"Lovely," Croaker said before sniffing. "Well, Lovegood, if we're quite finished with wandering aimlessly along the shore perhaps we can use our collective skills for something far more useful? Like breakfast perhaps?"

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to regroup with Birch with some tea; there were several other possible locations that may still end up more fruitful." Lovegood sighed, his otherwise cheerful disposition had quieted into a frown. "Perhaps we'll have a bit more luck on a properly full stomach."

Perhaps, Augusta thought, but everything sounded better after a bit of breakfast.

* * *

Padma considered him and his threat. Bringing Riddle to the Forbidden Forest had been a calculated risk but she was steadfast in her belief that it wasn't a mistake. Leaving him behind had been unthinkable—to leave him behind when he was being hunted like prey was enough to make her blood churn in fury. Padma was clever, certainly, but wasn't sure if she could protect them both if Riddle was actively sabotaging her efforts. For a moment she was reminded briefly of herself in the future, a young Hogwarts student beyond frustrated at the coddling and lies from the adults who ultimately proved unable to protect her or her sister. Perhaps telling him wasn't the worst course of action even if she felt guiltier at the prospect.

Still, his heavy-handed confrontation was grating to her sensibilities. She'd done her best to act in his self-interest but this was how he chose to repay her? "Do you normally go around vaguely threatening people for information?" Padma asked rather blandly, eyes slowly drifting from the wand back up to his face. "Rather poor habit, don't you think?"

His fury spiked though nothing overtly revealed as much on his face besides a slight tightening of his jaw. It was a bit creepy, if Padma had to be honest. Fifteen years old and better at withholding his expressions than a bloody Sphinx. "Patil—"

"Fine," Padma interrupted, "what then do you want to know? And don't get prissy with me just because my answers are vague. The very fabric of Time is hanging in the balance mind you."

He hadn't liked her interjection but it gave her a puerile satisfaction to watch the vein in his neck pulse. Riddle regarded her suspiciously; he likely didn't trust her concession. "Why did you fall into my bedroom?"

Padma nodded since it was a question she herself wanted answered. "I didn't have any control over where I landed but my running theory is that it has something to do with your Parselmouth abilities."

"Landed?" He asked. It seemed he was leaving no stone unturned.

"I was sent to study an ancient stone archway at Gringotts. One moment I'm studying Runes and the next I found myself falling through time and onto your bed." Padma paused, taking a moment to push her exhausted body towards the base of one of the trees, choosing to lean against it rather than her elbows. Riddle tracked her motion carefully with a focus that more than a little unsettling.

"Why did you walk through the mirror?" He asked next. Riddle had relaxed his arm but his magic was just as alert. "If you're really from the future, how did they know there'd be two of us?"

"Why is that after we met Croaker and Urey that there's a gap in our memories?" Padma first deflected, knowing that particular action had been rather suspicious in hindsight. "One moment we're to be taken to the Department of Mysteries but instead we're in a windowless room on desks transfigured into cots."

"Get to the point, Patil." Were all fifth-years this impatient?

"I wasn't thinking clearly," Padma conceded, "but I agreed to be taken to the Department of Mysteries not to be thrown into a jail cell."

Riddle frowned but he didn't voice any disagreement. "You still haven't answered the other question."

Padma shrugged. "I haven't got the slightest clue on how they knew I was coming but it stands to reason that they might have a way of tracking us." She looked at him pointedly. "Which is why we should continue this interrogation in the castle." At this point, Padma was almost certain that Maloney and his affiliates were the ones who ripped her from her own time and brought her to this one. The Unspeakables had been far too surprised by her sudden appearance.

Riddle's eyes widened and his mouth straightened into a thin line. He worked his jaw a bit likely frustrated since Padma doubted he liked her answers any more than she did. "What is a Naga(4)?"

"Depends on who you ask," Padma started. It was the truth, after all, Nani's stories had made them out to be bogeyman preying on mischievous little witches who'd sneak books under the covers after bedtime. She'd read academic essays positing Nagas as the true origin of Parseltongue—implying that all Speakers, therefore, had a bit of their blood in them no matter how minuscule—while learning that there were entire communities who worshipped them like the gods they were. "Some call them demons, rulers of the Underworld and coveters of the Moon but they were always just stories."

Nagas always seemed so divorced from reality, figures of the past meant to be both legend and warning. Classifying them as Creatures had always felt a bit unfitting to her especially considering how the term emerged as a way of distinguishing wizards as superior beings. Nagas were divine even if they were mortal—their lust for immortality didn't preclude them from being gods.

Riddle scoffed. "He seemed awfully convinced for a mere story."

"He's a poacher—to him there's little difference between a Naga's tongue and one that can speak Parseltongue, especially if he can sell it for five times the price." Padma thought she sounded far more confident than she actually was.

"But there _is_ a difference," Riddle emphasized, his tone reminded her of a raven pecking at a carcass, pilfering it for any valuable meat.

Padma hesitated for a split moment. She still remembered watching the way Riddle's eyes changed—morphed—into something otherworldly as his voice became honeyed and decadent. "Of course there is. Naga's aren't just magical creatures; they're considered to be _divine_."

Riddle's eyes glimmered and it reminded Padma when she first discovered her love of Runes. There was a hunger there—an all-consuming urge to devour—and especially dangerous in its lack of restraint. She shouldn't be as curious to find out how deep that desperation ran as she was, not when she had to find a way home.

"And you think that Hogwarts can help us?" Riddle asked. By this time he had moved the wand away though Padma stayed cautiously optimistic since his use of the word 'us' at least implied that he wasn't actively against the two of them working together.

"It houses the greatest public collection of magical knowledge in the United Kingdom. It's the most likely place to house the answers to our questions." She knew that the Hogwarts library didn't have all the answers but what they needed now was to regroup and plan especially if Maloney and his employer were to seek them out again. And Hogwarts was still the safest place in Magical Great Britain even now with a different war looming overhead.

"How do you expect to gain access? They don't even allow students to stay there over the summer holidays." Padma blinked because there was obviously a story there considering the bitter conviction behind it but she decided to come back to that later.

"There is no physical barrier between the Forbidden Forests and the castle," Padma helpfully reminded him. "We'd just have to walk without being noticed."

"So what? Your plan is to simply stroll right in?" Riddle barked out a laugh which seemed to surprise the both of them. It was an honest laugh as far as she could tell although at her expense.

"It's very likely the castle is nearly empty. I wouldn't be surprised if we only had to avoid the groundskeeper." Hardly anyone ever stayed at the castle during the summer holiday and Padma doubted it would be any different during this time period. "Besides, Hogwarts is neutral ground." Padma was unfazed when his brow furrowed in confusion, he likely was never told due to his Muggle upbringing. "Think of it as a political sanctuary—even the Ministry can't show up unannounced."

And that was particularly important to Padma. While the DMLE couldn't necessarily intervene in DoM affairs, Riddle was still underage and under their jurisdiction. She wasn't precisely sure what interdepartmental relations were like at this moment in time but she knew running from the DoM would have repercussions even if she felt like it was justified.

"Your plan is remarkably short-sighted," Riddle commented casually. Padma's mouth twisted, pursing her lips in displeasure as he continued, "But I suppose it's our only option for now."

She bit back a particularly thorny response but chose to concentrate her spite towards rising to stand. Hopefully, the castle would be nearer than she remembered.

* * *

Padma's feet were numb, barely cooperating more than two blocks of cement. Riddle strode ahead just slightly, obviously leading but wary of leaving his back exposed to her. It was overly cautious considering he still had the stolen wand in his hand. Perhaps in another situation, she would have insisted on keeping it within her possession but she felt too magically exhausted to be of any real use with it. Riddle seemed young but capable and gods how it reminded her of fifth year and joining the DA.

It was with no little relief when she began to notice the dense wood thinning out as the sun became more apparent overhead. She felt stronger in the light of day and when she finally caught sight of Hogwarts castle, her breath caught in her chest.

It was painful and Padma knew she would always carry this subtle mourning in her chest but she could not deny the hope she felt—bright and searing as it always was. Her eyes dashed across the lawn, remarking on the lack of the Whomping Willow and Hagrid's Hut. She paused, her eyes widened at the realization that Dumbledore's Tomb would also be missing. The weight in her chest tightened.

Padma couldn't imagine why anyone would willingly travel back to the past; Time Magic was monstrously cruel. The silence that surrounded the castle was nearly overwhelming—normally during weather like this the grounds would have a few students dawdling here and there in between classes—and it felt oppressive.

Riddle turned just slightly to look at her since she had fallen behind, impatience written all over his face. Padma shook her head, swallowing her thoughts and anxieties. She had to focus—Riddle, as infuriating as he was, was relying on her. Padma forced herself to quicken her pace despite the protests from her own body; she doubted she'd be useful without some decent rest and food. Perhaps if they were going to sneak into the castle anyways they could also wander down into the kitchens?

The doors to the castle stood heavy and imposing. Riddle glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Idly, she remembered that the castle doors were usually locked during curfew and wondered if that extended to holidays as well.

She felt a flush of embarrassment run down her spine, of course, it would be.

Nonetheless, Padma reached out with her right hand and jumped when the wooden doors suddenly swung open to reveal tired blue eyes.

They didn't quite twinkle like they did on the cover of Rita Skeeter's latest expose— _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ —but Padma doubted she'd ever forget them.

Albus Dumbledore stood before them in dark butterscotch robes that were admittingly understated when compared to his preferences in the latter years of his life. Padma couldn't remember a time when Dumbledore hadn't seemed larger than life—one of the greatest wizards of a generation and here he stood, beard more auburn than white and face still mostly unlined.

"Tom," he greeted Riddle as Padma stood frozen, "there you are."

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 **1 Pep-Up: a variant of the Pepper-Up potion that counteracts the effects of sleep deprivation and fatigue for a short time. Think of it as the magical equivalent of a Four-Hour Energy shot. Name is my own creation but I'm sure something like it exists in JKR's universe.**

 **2 Dowsing Rods/Divining/Willow Witching: Crystal dowsing rods were likely not very common but Wikipedia states that glass, metal and even _plastic_ rods are acceptable.**

 **3 Yes, the cave the trio ventured into is the very same one that Tom Riddle had used in his youth. The corrupting influence of whatever happened definitely had lasting consequences on the inherent magic in the cave.**

 **4 Naga: Something that I found rather interesting about my research into Nagas was how distant they are from mainstream-versions of Hinduism. Nagas are much more associated with folklore and local deities than I was initially aware of. It makes sense considering what my mom told me made them out to be more of a superstition than religious iconography per se. I think it's rather important to add that they weren't always the villains of the story—something which often happens with snake iconography in Western stories.**

 **Absolutely love how FF ate my superscripts /sarcasm**

 **Anyways, hope yall enjoyed the update! Please review.**


	8. He Falls

"You've caused quite the stir," Dumbledore commented as he stood in front of their path. Tom bit the inside of his mouth as he was prone to do in front of the professor—he had to remember to hold his tongue back, after all. Even if it was extraordinarily tempting to rip the old codger a new one for assuming that Tom was to blame for everything. Dumbledore then glanced at Patil, eyes still bright, "Both of you have."

Patil's lips pursed, the witch was obviously uncomfortable from Dumbledore's attention but she remained stubbornly silent. Her behavior was strange; she hadn't bothered to be so tightlipped in front of the Unspeakables but her unease _(distrust)_ of Dumbledore piqued Tom's interest. It implied that there was more to the story. Did Patil know Dumbledore? Of course, the wizard was an established fixture of Hogwarts—it was difficult to imagine the school without the old wizard looking at Tom in thinly veiled disapproval.

While Dumbledore didn't sigh, Tom would readily admit the professor looked weary with fatigue and apparent age. It was rather startling though he loathed to admit it, Dumbledore always looked untouched by time and everything else.

"I suppose the both of you have quite the story to tell," Dumbledore continued seeing as Patil had declined to open her mouth. He steps back a few paces, allowing the two to cross the threshold of the castle. "Follow me to the infirmary, Madam Jones is, unfortunately, visiting her sister but I'm sure I manage—"

"That won't be necessary for me," Patil interrupted, her voice soft but startlingly apparent. Tom found himself nearly frowning, his eyes trained on the blooming bruise on her face. It was nonsensically illogical to refuse healing even if it was offered by Dumbledore.

The professor was silent as he studied Patil's face, faintly lingering on the cut on her lip and the steady look in her eyes. Judging by how quickly the older wizard looked away, he too was uncomfortable by the witch's decision but he acquiesced. "Very well, but you are both more than welcome to freshen up in the infirmary before joining me for lunch. I'm afraid that large portions of the castle are currently hibernating—it would be best not to disturb it."

Washing up did sound rather glorious and while he was glad that Dumbledore wasn't going to immediately begin interrogating him, Tom's mind caught on something unusual. "And what exactly do you mean by hibernating, professor?" Tom asked, careful to keep his tone even and bland as it always was whenever he spoke to the old Gryffindor.

Dumbledore did not immediately answer as they walked through the halls much to Tom's irritation. Typical, _always_ holding secrets. It was only when they were across from the infirmary's doors that Dumbledore spoke. "On the behest of myself and the Board of Governors, the castle's defenses have been fortified before the next term begins. It takes some time for the magic to settle."

Tom wished to ask so many more questions but the wizard ushered them through the doors brusquely without speaking any further.

* * *

It had become tradition—almost _ritualistic_ —for Tom to bathe immediately after the Welcome Feast. Here at Hogwarts, there were no limits on hot water or soap or clean linens. It was no little relief or pleasure to see his clothes had been laundered and pressed in the time he had been soaking in the bath and that his shoes had even been shined, as shabby as they were. Yes, Tom was certain of it, there was nothing he loved greater than magic. He felt much more in control as he returned to the main room of the infirmary, even taking the time to wipe some of the now dried blood off of Maloney's ugly wand before keeping it readily tucked away. He still wanted his own of course but Tom had learned to be economical.

While Tom had gone to wash the filth off his person, Patil had, much to his disgust, unceremoniously collapsed into an empty cot as soon Dumbledore was no longer in sight. Tom had even wrinkled his nose considering the witch hadn't even _bothered_ to change out of her soiled robes.

The witch was still lying on the cot when he emerged from the W.C., looking more like a lump of cloth rather than a person. Tom examined her still figure for a few moments as he allowed himself to idly wonder how a witch had managed to change so much of his life in barely a day's time. It was well in the middle of summer and yet here he stood within Hogwarts—something he had been told was impossible since his first year. He was no longer the only Parselmouth, a fact that he was still digesting rather carefully. Patil herself had confessed that she wasn't a traditional speaker but that didn't change the fact that she was still the clearest link to his heritage that he had. He had also, much to his fury, lost his wand but if he hadn't, Tom would have never realized how dependent on it he was. His neglect of honing his wandless magic was clearly a mistake and his complacency had almost cost him everything. He was well aware that they had both escaped by the skin of their teeth, and it was mostly due to Patil's obsession with a children's spellbook of all things. Tom had severe doubts he would have escaped so _cleanly_ without her bumbling. Patil may be barely able to apparate in a straight line but she far surpassed expectations when it came to runes and sigils. That she hadn't simply abandoned him at the first sign of conflict had been foolish but Tom looked forward to exploiting that heart.

But first, he was better off in the library. He was not one to merely sit idle. Though Dumbledore had mentioned that most of the castle was apparently hibernating, that didn't mean Tom would blindly follow the old fool's words. He knew he could find a way, even with the faulty wand. He tore his gaze away from the sleeping witch as he walked across the ward, intent on leaving the infirmary. It was only as he reached the large wooden doors that he felt his joints begin to stiffen. Initially, he brushed it off as fatigue but as he neared the threshold, his legs began to seize up as though they had suddenly gained a mind of their own. Had Dumbledore placed a magical barrier on the infirmary's entrance?

Tom frowned, he hadn't noticed Dumbledore casting any magic as he had led them here but he supposed it was possible the old man had performed wordless magic without drawing his notice. There was a possibility that Patil had noticed as he remembered how she knew how far a radius Maloney had cast the Disapparition Hex. The fact that she had looked rather dumbfounded at Tom's question had been frustrating—yet another obvious thing that he didn't know.

He could likely break whatever barrier Dumbledore had installed but that was only if he had his true wand. Maloney's was barely serviceable, in fact, Tom wasn't even confident in calling it a _wand_. Still, Tom was no fool. As disgusting as it felt to hold it, a stolen wand was better than no wand at all. Besides, a wand that also couldn't immediately be linked to him had certain merits that couldn't be ignored. He'd save the wand of course but that meant not testing its abilities until absolutely necessary. Breaking it would entirely defeat its purpose. Reluctantly, he moved away from the door, feeling relief as he neared Patil's cot. _Meddling old fool_.

He sat on the cot across from the Unspeakable, stewing and brooding. But even that became tiring after a while—the infirmary was actually beginning to get warm from the sunlight that poured in. It was soothing alongside the inherent magic that he could feel from the stones of the castle—it lulled him until he too felt his eyes close in slumber.

* * *

When Tom woke, his eyes glanced over to her empty cot as he startled— _not again_ —nearly jerking out of bed until his eyes latched onto her seated figure a short distance away. Patil sat in front of the windows that overlooked the grounds and as he rose, Tom very nearly snorted as he caught sight of the yellow frilly monstrosity she had obviously replaced her ill-fitting robes with. She'd bathed at least even if her robes were an eye-sore. She had left her hair open to dry and it hung like black sil—Tom stopped behind her, his jaw tensing.

It was only when he was practically standing behind her that she opened her mouth. She didn't bother to even look at him, fixating her attention on the empty grounds and the shimmering surface of the Black Lake. "Do you still have the wand?" she whispered, voice barely making a sound. "And I'd be careful with your words, the portrait is watching."

Tom froze in place and then forcibly eased the tension from his body. He rested his hand on the back of her wooden chair, the picture of nonchalance and his grip was deceivingly lax. He hadn't even noticed a portrait but he should have known better than to believe Dumbledore would simply leave them here unmonitored.

"Of course," he replied. Do you _take me for a fool?_

"He'll likely be calling for us now that we're both awake. Hopefully, we'll have a small window of time before the Unspeakables arrive if he hasn't called them already," Patil stated the words casually as she swept a lock of hair from her face.

 _Interesting_ , Tom thought. Patil didn't seem to trust Dumbledore overly much. What did she know? "Can't Dumbledore be trusted? He is the deputy headmaster, after all."

"Planning for contingencies is basic logic—his public position constrains him even if it isn't immediately obvious." Patil sighed.

"So you know him then?" Tom fished again—everyone and their mother trusted Dumbledore even the purebloods in Slytherin trusted his _image_. What could Dumbledore have possibly done for Patil to want to plan _around_ him?

Patil ignored his question. "While we're here we'll have a slight reprieve from Maloney and his ilk but I doubt they'll give up so easily now that they've shown their hand to the Unspeakables. They'll want to tie up loose ends more than ever." Tom clenched his teeth even as Patil continued. "I will likely have to reveal your Parselmouth abilities to them and we'll have to present Maloney's wand as evidence."

Tom had often thought that his rage was like a suffocating frost that blanketed everything but hearing Patil just _decide_ everything as though he was meekly going to go along made him feel as though his blood was boiling within his veins. Quick, sudden and thoroughly intoxicating. How _dare_ this witch upend his life and then command him as if he was some peon.

"There's actually something I've been meaning to tell you—it's about when you first landed in my bedroom," the words fell out of his mouth smoothly like oil. "Well, it's something I need to _show_ you, actually."

Patil shifted in her chair, her head turning slightly as Tom gripped Maloney's wand.

He waited until their eyes met—the single moment had been more than long enough for him to throw his magic into the shallows of her mind. He often equated it with fishing, watching the old men cast their lines out along the pier when he'd have the chance to wander the streets before supper. It had become rather routine at this point; common practice at Wool's and even on the stragglers that tend to trail after his coattails. He rarely needed more than a flicker of his magic to pull surface thoughts from those nearly-empty skulls.

But something went wrong.

His magic was suddenly being dragged inward; he felt a deep pull from the recesses of her mind as though a gaping abyss had taken hold of his magic and _yanked_ on his thread of consciousness. Tom grit his teeth; panic alight in his heart as he scrambled to find purchase and stop himself from being dragged deeper into Patil's mind. He found himself nearly snarling at Patil's bright and glassy eyes which hadn't changed from their previously dazed expression. _Is she doing this subconsciously? How is that possible?_

He felt clumsy in his own body as he tried to move his eyes to look away—to break the connection before whatever it was swallowed him whole—but found himself almost leaning closer as his own eyes burned bright with magic.

And so Tom Riddle fell deep within the witch's mind as the silence in the infirmary stood witness.

* * *

"You shouldn't be here," a young girl's voice called out. Tom woke startled, grimacing as he realized he had awoken on _dirt_ of all things. He rose with dignity even as he had to brush the dirt off his trousers—already cursing underneath his breath. Where in Merlin's name was—

"I _said_ you shouldn't be here," there was a bit of imperiousness to the brat's tone this time. Tom tilted his head upwards to find a young girl sitting on a branch of a giant banyan tree—it was difficult to see how old she was considering how high up she sat as well as the fact that she was carrying a large tome almost bigger than her torso.

He had been lying in between its roots when the girl's voice had woken him. The tree itself was an earthen brown, covered in moss that ranged from a brilliant emerald to a strange lichen black. The air itself was damp, much like just after a rainfall. "Why are you here?"

Last he remembered he had been in the infirmary using Legilimency to view Patil's memories until he had been pulled here— the girl was likely a figment of Patil's mind. Tom frowned, gripping Maloney's wand with enough strength to nearly crack the wood. He had done his reading on Legilimency, of course, and had always been careful not to venture deeper into his prey's mind considering how easy it was to break someone's mind like a thinly-shelled egg. Not that Tom had cared overly much but it was a bit more difficult to hide the damage if they suddenly started _drooling_ everywhere. But this, this had never happened before.

While he could likely use Maloney's wand to force his way out of her mind, there was a very strong chance that Patil's mind could trap him here. Something was anchoring his consciousness inside her mind—likely whatever had drawn him here in the first place—and until he found it he could be stuck here indefinitely. Tom had quickly learned a certain degree of cautiousness for strange magic considering the events of the past twenty-four hours and decided he needed to thoroughly investigate before attempting an escape.

"I can't quite see you," Tom lied making sure to use every inch of his charm, "and I'm not sure where I am. I'm lost, you see. Could you help me?" He flexed his grip on the wand.

The tree groaned suddenly and Tom realized that its many branches were actually moving with purpose. A large branch lowered and he took a closer look at the young girl. She was small, likely eight or so if the children at Wool's were anything to compare her to, and her twin plaits moved as she cocked her head to look at him. She had a large red tome in her lap though she was still too far away for Tom to read its title.

"You're _lost_?" Her voice rose in surprise. "But that's dangerous!"

The leaves in the banyan tree continued to rustle. Tom grit his teeth, his body tense as he answered, "Yes, unfortunately. Would you be so kind?"

He didn't trust the tree. If he had his own wand, he had no doubt he'd make short work of it and soon it would just be a pile of ash but Maloney's wand was just as likely to burn him. Considering the circumstances, it was best to save fire as a last resort.

She frowned for a moment as she nervously tapped the cover of the book. "Oh, I know!" Her face brightened as her smile revealed missing teeth. "I'll send you to her!"

 _Her?_ Perhaps she meant Patil's conscious form?

"That would be helpful." Tom gave her a gracious nod.

The girl nodded as she knocked three times on the tree branch she was sitting on. It made a strange hollow noise almost like a bell ringing and the sound practically vibrated in the air. A root nearby cracked as it rose from the ground and awkwardly twisted itself into a semicircle.

"There! Just go through that and it'll take you to her."

Tom had his reservations considering he could see through the arch the root had created and it looked completely ordinary. His jaw worked as he stifled a sigh. _Everything_ with Patil had to be childish, he supposed.

"Much thanks," he gifted the child another smile before walking briskly towards the makeshift doorway. He allowed himself to pause for a moment before carefully leaning in and then disappearing.

The banyan tree began to creak loudly. The girl's smile dropped as she patted the branch. "She'll get rid of him, you'll see." The tree groaned again much to her displeasure. "Here, _forget_ about him, I'll read you another story."

* * *

Tom stepped out onto the familiar roughly hewn floors of Hogwarts—it was captured so perfectly that for a moment he nearly forgot that he was actually still in Patil's mind. He found himself in the hallway near the Transfiguration Classroom. The halls were eerily quiet when he observed further and even the portraits were acting strangely. They didn't even bother to try to speak to him rather choosing to instead run to different portraits or conceal themselves within their landscapes. Tom couldn't recall a moment that he'd ever seen them do that before. Most times he regarded them as mere decorations but the sheer fear from their eyes unsettled him.

He walked further noticing the large gashes in the walls which exposed broken brick and dust and ash. The air itself was foul as well, thick with ash and metallic smell—something sulfur and perhaps iron. Multiple destructive spells, enough to nearly tear clean through the walls in some places, revealing empty and dusty classrooms. Something had tried to destroy the castle with mixed success. Tom's belly tightened in disgust, it reminded him too much of the shattered buildings and sheer devastation that resulted from the air-raids. Entire streets just _obliterated_. This had to be Patil's memories—something would come to Hogwarts and try to destroy it—try to snatch it from him.

His steps echoed through the hallway, causing his body to tense further. Maloney's wand stayed outstretched in his hand as he kept his mind diligent and alert for sudden movements. Living in the orphanage as well as subsequently conquering Slytherin house had long forced Tom to hone an instinct for such things. There were eyes watching him—eyes that didn't belong to the portraits. He cast a wordless _silencio_ on his feet so that his footfalls gradually became quieter and quieter. It would be foolish to draw further attention to himself.

He moved quickly and carefully, trying to ensure that his back was never fully exposed as he walked through the corridors. He wasn't exactly certain where he was supposed to find Patil but he found himself gingerly moving to the location of the library. If this was truly a reflection of her mind and if she was as much as a swot as he thought she was, he'd likely find her there. It was, at least, the best place to start.

The Grand Staircase was thankfully still functioning but when he stepped off onto the third floor, he shifted his feet quickly so as to avoid the blood that was pooling on the floors. It was coming from the stone walls, trickling down and staining the portraits in a mockery of bright red paint. Certainly macabre, Tom noted dryly. But he assumed that a warzone would have more bodies than just empty hallways full of blood and cowering portraits.

Nonetheless, he remained vigilant and paused slightly as he realized there was a soft rattling noise coming from a nearby door. The door itself was otherwise unremarkable, painted similarly to the wallpaper in an attempt to hide in plain sight. Tom was not a coward but he was also cautious. He had not noticed any windows in his trek down the stairs or the hallways, a detail that unsettled him as the doorknob continued to shake. He held Maloney's wand in his hand, considering as—

The door opened just a crack, revealing a quarter of a round face and a single red-rimmed eye. He knew that eye—that was Patil's eye watching him from the other side of the narrow opening, her eye swollen from tears.

"Y-you shouldn't be here." Her voice trembled, sounding hoarse from over-use. "They'll find you. You need to hide."

Tom's eyes narrowed as he asked, "Who will find me?"

Despite the fact that he could not fully see her face it was obvious that she shook her head before attempting to withdraw into the closet. Tom stuck out a hand, holding the door so that she could not shut it completely. He allowed himself to ask once more, " _Who_ will find me?"

This forced her into a small panic and she nearly started crying again as he felt her throw her entire weight behind the door, trying once again to close it.

"Why are you doing this?" She pleaded, her voice straining to remain a whisper.

"Tell me," Tom's voice was hard, "or I'll blast this door down."

His words thoroughly startled her and Tom nearly stumbled through the door as Patil completely pulled back. She was in Hogwarts robes, cowering behind several mops and brooms—admittedly strangely dull things to find within a magical school let alone a witch's mind—and by her stature and round face she looked no more than twelve perhaps but it was difficult for Tom to tell, the younger students all looked disturbingly small. This was likely not Patil's conscious form, probably just another impression of a memory of sort like the other one he'd met. At least this one was slightly older, perhaps he was getting closer.

She looked at him with large watery eyes as though she might burst into tears again and Tom found himself sneering in disgust. He never did like the sniveling of the younger children at the orphanage—especially the newly orphaned who still bemoaned the loss of their families. Just as Tom was about to open his mouth, however, a howl resounded through the castle and then several more erupted in sync.

 _Werewolves inside the castle?_ That should have been impossible but he was inside Patil's mind, of course, logic wasn't necessarily a requirement. The young Patil bolted, pushing him aside with surprising strength as she very nearly flew out the door of the broom cupboard like an owl set aflame.

Tom blinked, surely Patil's mind wouldn't _truly_ conjure werewolves. Just a childish fear, likely, belonging more to a storybook than actual fact. He walked out of the broom cupboard, wand alight in his hand and decided to venture out and press on to the library. The younger Patil was gone; he couldn't even hear her footfalls despite the fact that she had ran away. Almost as though she had disappeared into the walls. He did not allow himself to be unsettled as he forced himself to focus—the library should only be a few more paces away and then he could find Patil and end this farce.

But as he turned the corridor, he was met with a wall of solid stone instead of the entrance of the library. Written on the stone (in blood of course because Patil's mind had to keep up with the theme) was a single line: "Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever."

 _Her skeleton?_ Did that mean Patil's skeleton? Was he viewing another memory or was this just another imagined nightmare? The Ravenclaw's mind was more morbid than he initially expected. He even tapped the stone with Maloney's wand as though to test whether Patil's mind would have created another mirror to hid the damned library from him but alas it remained steadfast and firm.

Tom stalked back to the stairs, footfalls heavy with frustration. Of course, nothing would that bloody simple. He stood on the stairs, pondering his next move as he caught sight of a figure on a different staircase moving in the opposite direction. The figure was dressed in bright turquoise robes trimmed in gold that sparkled under the candlelight of the large chandeliers overhead. It was Patil or at least another version of her. She was taller and likely older as well, dressed in expensive robes meant more for a ball rather than to attend classes or go to Hogsmeade. She seemed harried, judging by the frown on her lips and the nervous way she tapped the railing with her fingernails.

He found himself wanting to call out to her, just to confirm whether this was the _real_ Patil or just another figment of her mind. And yet he found his mouth firmly shut, voice trapped in his own throat as he watched her frantically walk towards Ravenclaw tower with her skirt swishing as though she had hounds at her heels.

The trance broke and he quickly changed staircases, cursing when he realized he would have to wait for a particular staircase to swing back around so he could make it to Ravenclaw tower. The entrance to the Ravenclaw common room wasn't overly difficult to locate, in fact, he'd found the Knocker by chance one day while during Christmas holidays in his very first year. He had been surprised when the Knocker had given him a riddle to solve and was willing to allow him entrance so as long as he answered correctly. He had thought Ravenclaws foolish then and he still did—what use was a guard if it would just let _anyone_ inside? How utterly moronic.

There was a firm frown on his face as stalked towards the entrance but he stopped mid-step as he heard a dull grating noise as though someone was dragging their untrimmed nails along a blackboard. It was coming from the hallway where the Knocker was located, just outside the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room. Tom shifted his head, positioning himself so most of his body was hidden by the corner of the corridor.

A figure stood perhaps close to seven feet tall, hirsute, and used their long yellow nails to rip at the stone and the Knocker. _Werewolf_ , Tom's mind whispered in disbelief. Up until this point he had never seen anyone else in Patil's mind except copies of herself but there stood a werewolf half-transformed violently ripping at walls with awe-inducing strength.

 _This was just a memory_ , Tom told himself as he readjusted his grip on Maloney's wand. Even as the werewolf snarled and took hold of the door knocker and tried to rip it out the talons of the eagle. The eagle itself remained silent, not voicing a single sound of distress even as the bronze began to twist from the creature's grip.

Tom silently cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, biting his tongue as he felt the spell trickle over his skin. Not entirely ideal but he needed to distract the creature to gain access to Ravenclaw tower and while it was likely just another memory—Tom was not too keen on finding out how an injury in Patil's mind would translate to the physical world. If he was unlucky it'd send him back half-witted like Flint on a good day.

If he had his wand he would have conjured an animal—likely a rabbit, something fast that would invoke the werewolf's baser instincts to chase prey—but Maloney's wand still felt frail in his hands. Even the Disillusionment charm had caused the wand to physically tremble in his grip as though unused to the complex charm. Figured that a wand belonging to a nitwit would be just as useless as its owner. It led credence to the common saying 'the wand chooses the wizard.' When Tom made it out of Patil's mind, his first and foremost goal was to get his own wand back into his custody. He was never going to allow himself to lose it again—Dumbledore, the Ministry be damned.

So Tom settled for something simpler though crude. He cast a _Bombarda_ at one of the chandeliers hanging over the network of staircases, the sound and resulting crash loud enough to draw the Werewolf's attention. The creature paused, standing up on its hind legs and sniffed deeply. Despite his faith in his own magic, Tom felt sweat on the back of his neck. It opened its human maw to reveal jagged, yellowing teeth and a long black tongue before stalking down the hallway on all four limbs; its gait leisurely predatory.

Tom allowed himself to inhale once he watched the creature go down the stairs and he carefully turned the corner to face the destroyed door knocker. Patil had a werewolf loose in her mind that was actively destroying her memories. It seemed to explain her almost nonexistent attention span. He removed the charm with a nonverbal _finite incantatem_ , and studied the knocker as it continued to remain silent. How was he supposed to enter the tower now that the werewolf had destroyed it? It was even no longer capable of its ordinary function as twisted as the bronze now was.

 _Another dead end_ , Tom's expression soured. At this rate, it felt as though he was going to be stuck in Patil's mind for ages. Perhaps it was time to start blasting things until he found an exit. Brute force had always served his wandless magic well even if he never had much use for it once he had learned spells. Sure the entrance to Ravenclaw tower was likely heavily enchanted in the physical world but he doubted that in Patil's mind it would hold up to the same muster. Even if he had to tear the tower apart brick by brick, he would find her and return back to his own body. Even if it left Patil no better than a mindless corpse.

Just as he raised Maloney's wand, however, a deep discordant moaning filled the hallway. What followed next was not quite footsteps so much as the rattling of bones stumbling over solid stone, much like a puppet learning how to walk. Tom felt his throat tighten, he had read about them of course. Studied them extensively as fascinated as he was but he almost couldn't believe the crowd of _Inferi_ that was hobbling up the staircase straight towards him. They stalked towards him on broken limbs, eyes wretchedly white and their pale skin stretched taut over brittle bone. Tom found himself with his back pressed against the eagle knocker, suddenly forced into a corner. There were too many of them—some of the quicker ones even crawling on top of the backs of others in their haste to reach him.

Fire was the only thing to stop an _inferius_. _Fiendfyre_ , preferably, but with Maloney's blasted wand Tom doubted that particular spell would even spark. The _Inferi_ were likely what the other Patil meant when she had warned him earlier. Fire poured out of the wand as he cast a silent incendio—the flame itself was almost blue in color in its brightness. Hopefully enough to melt bone or at least render it to ash. But even as diligently as Tom worked to keep the flame bright and hot, he felt Maloney's wand begin to sputter in his grip. _Blasted fucking wand_ —

Tom pushed his magic, gritting his teeth as he felt his grip become slick with sweat. He held his breath because the smell of burning Inferi was enough to make him gag if he allowed himself to focus on it—Patil had likely faced the same group of Inferi if this was simply another one of her memories though he himself was beginning to doubt it. Of course, he had to fall into the one witch's mind _infested_ with dark creatures.

He felt the wall behind him buckle as though the walls itself could not bear the weight of all these dark creatures piling into one space. Distantly, he heard the creaking of metal despite the fact that it was difficult to concentrate on anything besides the din of moaning from the _inferi_.

He very nearly dropped the wand as he felt a hand grip his shoulder and pull him backward, causing him to stumble back into the gaping light as he watched the wall rebuild itself as the _inferi_ began to claw closer.

Despite the fact that he had passed through the entrance to Ravenclaw tower, it was very clear that Tom was no longer within the castle. No, they were somehow now outside in the bright sun walking amidst the clouds as birds flew overhead by the dozens. Tom paused as he observed further, no they weren't birds but rather books flying around flapping their covers like makeshift wings. Utterly nonsensical but otherwise harmless. If he strained his hearing, he could still hear the Inferi screaming in the distance.

Tom whipped around, smoke still streaming off of Maloney's wand as he retorted, "And I suppose you simply _had_ to wait until the Inferi arrived to invite me in?"

"Are you always this charming or do you do this for all the girls you use Legilimency on?" Patil asked dryly as she folded her arms. This one at least resembled her conscious form complete with the monstrously frilly robes and the tinge of superiority in her tone. There was a faint sense of relief that Tom had difficulty admitting to feeling as he caught sight of her alert eyes. The other doppelgangers had the vaguest sense of confusion whenever they interacted with him as though they weren't certain _why_ he was here in the first place. "I'd be more than willing to push you back out."

Tom smiled ruefully, Patil truly tested his limits like no other. He had never been caught so flatfooted before but he refused to give up any ground; he would win. "Careful Patil because as I remember it _I_ still possess the wand." The moment he left her mind and was back in his body, he was going to _Obliviate_ her and then cast _Imperius_ , surely that would yield him immediate results.

She considered his words coolly as a gentle breeze swept over them. "Maybe but we're inside _my_ mind as I recall." Her eyes were sharp and alert. "You'll need my help to leave even if you didn't need it to enter."

Patil didn't seem the slightest bit afraid of him or the wand in his hand, choosing to step forward even as he kept it pointed to her person. Patil's eyes were dark and daring and it sent a thrill up Tom's spine. They burned into his even as the tip of Maloney's wand pressed into the bows on the bodice of her ridiculous robes. A spell at this range would be devastating even if he cast something as gentle as _Rictusempra_ , it could potentially force her into a laughing fit strong enough to crack her ribs.

"Did you find what you were looking for then?" Patil asked, her voice low and mocking. "I do hope that it was enough to sate your curiosity."

He had never met a witch so audacious before but her eyes held a confidence so assured that he could not dare to call her reckless. This was not stubbornness nor mere arrogance, no this went beyond that. Patil was certain of her victory and for a moment Tom envied her. He had been trying to embody that force of will and here this witch did it so effortlessly.

Tom's pulse in his throat jumped; it felt as though his blood was roaring in spite and heartily stoked ire. What he had found was that this witch was half-mad and utterly aggravating. Her mind full of secrets of the future but yet empty of any real value.

He knew he had to be careful even as much as he desperately wanted to cast a Bone-Breaking Hex at point-blank range the potential effects of pain on Patil's mind could prove destabilizing. Tom did not want to end up trapped in Patil's mind for the rest of his days—he had plans to execute, people to find, power to grab. So he would be prudent but there was no reason for him to be _kind_.

" _Incarcerous_."

* * *

"And how long have they been like this?" Augusta asked Dumbledore as she examined their two lost wards from a safe distance. The pair were standing near the window as though completely frozen in time, their expressions vacant and unseeing. At first glance, they almost seemed petrified but they had someone retained their coloring—Patil and Riddle were certainly still alive even if their chests were unmoving.

"I am unsure of the exact duration but no more than 15 minutes since you arrived." The older wizard was grave in his expression and Augusta still felt a bit awkward talking to him like this—Dumbledore had been her Transfiguration professor nearly twelve years ago—and it was difficult to speak with him as a peer rather than a student.

"And you haven't disturbed them?" Lovegood asked. He was the only one who dared to venture closer to the pair in that he stood a mere two steps away. Augusta wasn't certain how he managed that considering even from this distance she could feel their magic crackling and the strong smell of ozone. Her own magic was deeply unsettled and it made her want to edge towards the entrance of the infirmary rather than venture any closer.

"No that seemed rather ill-advised." Augusta couldn't fault Dumbledore, it felt eerie seeing them frozen like that even as their magic felt as though they were actively casting.

"No time anomalies," Croaker spoke out gruffly as he reviewed the data he'd collected with his Sundial. "Least we have one less thing to worry about."

"We should move them," Birch suggested. "The ambient magic of the castle might be heightening the reaction."

" _Nonono_ ," Lovegood quickly replied as he shook his head. "Introducing additional magic at this stage might tip the scales."

"Well, you _certainly_ can't be suggesting just leaving them here, Phileas."

"Anything else strange?" Augusta pressed, ignoring the fact that the two were having yet another row. If they were to have another incident inside the castle—

"None that I noticed." Dumbledore sighed. "St. Deicolus stated the two had just been talking until they fell into a sort of trance." He gestured to the portrait which hung over the Mediwitch's office. The old hermit in the portrait merely shrugged in response to Augusta's cursory glance.

"Utterly fascinating," Lovegood continued. "It's as though they're warping magic around themselves almost like a shield!"

"Or a cocoon," Birch quietly suggested.

Lovegood abruptly turned to face his colleague, expression unusually serious as he nodded. "A transformation, or rather, a _metamorphosis_. Perhaps this is a natural development of their bond."

"There is nothing natural about this," Croaker asserted tersely.

"On the contrary, my dear Saul, some would in fact argue that this is a soul's natural state of being. That all souls would develop a bond like this so as long as certain criteria are met." Lovegood was calm even as he continued to wave his wand around the pair as a small ticker tape in the corner continued to spew out figures and symbols on long streams of parchment.

"Just so that I'm understanding correctly, neither of you have any clue of what's going on then?" Augusta hedged a guess.

Croaker blustered as Lovegood cheerfully responded, "Certainly not! It's all terribly exciting."

* * *

Rather than a large concentrated cluster of thick ropes, Maloney's wand burst into confetti as though Tom had just pulled a Christmas cracker rather than cast a spell. Suddenly the reason for Patil's irritating confidence became overwhelmingly obvious.

"You've never practiced Occlumency, have you?" Patil asked. "Magic works a bit different in the mind, it's the reason why Mind Magicks are so difficult to master in the first place."

She was an Occlumens, _of course_. Tom swore loudly and colorfully, mouth as rank as any drunk he'd heard on the street. Patil looked amused but that hard look in her eyes didn't waver.

He now only had his wits at his disposal and perhaps his charm as well though that was bit dicier considering Patil knew he had attempted to look at her memories. Wits then and sheer force of will. Even if he was in Patil's mind, he was certain that he would find a way to come out on top.

"No," Tom answered honestly. "Legilimency seemed more useful." Not to mention that he possessed a natural talent for it.

"It's actually rather remarkable how you've managed this far without a teacher," Patil commented. "Even more remarkable that you haven't managed to get caught." Her unspoken _until now_ rankled him.

"Hogwarts does not offer a course so I made do." He half-smiled, venom dripping from his lips.

Patil sighed, her expression looked rather downcast for someone who had the figurative upperhand. It wasn't like _she_ was trapped in _his_ mind, after all. "Look I know you don't trust me and I certainly don't have _any_ reason to trust you but there's something I need to show you. I think it's the reason why you fell into my mind even when you were just trying to do a cursory sweep of my memories."

She was correct, he certainly didn't trust her. But nothing about her expression indicated a lie and besides, why would she have any reason to do so? Maloney's wand was now just glitter and shiny bits of paper and he had no real access to the actual wand in here.

"Lead the way," he stated tersely as though he was allowing her to do so on _his_ command.

Patil led him further into the open space and he followed sedately behind her, noticing that the clouds began to recede and gave way to moist, fertile soil. Not mud, exactly, no it was firmer than that and uneven with stone and unearthed roots. Alive in a way that the small victory garden of the orphanage never managed to be. Soil that knew it would absorb everything above in due time.

The roots grew larger and more concentrated—his eyes tracing them back to the large banyan tree he had first encountered in Patil's mind. It loomed giant in the distance, much larger than he recalled. But there was also something else that he didn't remember noticing the first time round.

"What is that?" Tom asked, watching diligently as a large silver serpent wove itself in and out of the banyan tree's roots and branches. The snake itself was growing larger in size the longer he remained staring at it. Its scales shined against the dark backdrop of the tree, twisting and curving until it became almost indistinguishable from the tree itself.

"Don't you recognize it, Riddle?" Patil asked, she too was watching the serpent with rapt attention. "That's your magic."

* * *

 **A/N: not edited; I'll likely add my notes at a later time but this already standing at 7.5k so... Wishing everyone safety and health in these strange, strange times. Would love to hear your thoughts about everything. It's a weird chapter that I was a little unsure about.**


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